


By Your Touch Alone

by local_doom_void, Rabenschnabel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dom/sub, Insanely long, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, Master/Slave, Queer Themes, RP, Romance, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter), Sex, Slow Burn, over 550k of backlog words, slowest of fucking burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24185791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/local_doom_void/pseuds/local_doom_void, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenschnabel/pseuds/Rabenschnabel
Summary: There is a cottage on the coast near Penzance where Lord Voldemort lives with his boy.In other words, Barty was able to escape from Hogwarts in the nick of time and is finally able to live the life he always longed for – one spent in devotion to his master.
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr./Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Bartemius Crouch Jr./Voldemort
Comments: 48
Kudos: 188





	1. After the Resurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much an unedited free RP. It hits its stride around 20k in. Barty is written by Rab (Rabenschnabel), Voldemort is written by Kit (local_doom_void).
> 
> Strap in you bastards, this is long.

Barty was in a bind. Ever since Potter had told him of the success of the resurrection, the servant's bond had been pulling at him as if it meant to tear him apart. There was a bone-deep ache radiating out into his whole body from the Dark Mark on his forearm and he longed to follow its call.

His master was whole again. Lord Voldemort had risen anew with the help of his two most pitiful servants – he wasn't too vain to acknowledge that his usefulness was restricted to his wand arm and his quick mind.

For all the influence his name held, he might as well be Barty No-Name. Would serve his old man right, in any case.

"Stop grinning, Crouch!" McGonagall's voice roused him from his thoughts. "They're sending for the aurors right this moment and you'll be back in Azkaban where you belong in no time."

"You wound me, Minerva," he calmly replied. "We've been good colleagues the last year, and you and I both know I had no part in torturing Frank and Alice. You taught us back then. Alice was in my year in Ravenclaw, we were _friends_. I admit to being a Death Eater but I'm not a monster."

"Being a Death Eater is enough to warrant a life-long stay in that rotten place," McGonagall seethed back, her mouth a thin line in her fear and anger.

"Tell that to Lucius Malfoy and the likes," he sighed. "Walking free after all the atrocities he committed – and now, governor on the board of directors! Doesn't that annoy you a lot more than one who's been kept prisoner for 13 years for 2 years of anarchy when they were 17 years old? You know I wasn't a bad kid. My father just... Nevermind."

There was a spark of doubt in her eyes now, and Barty allowed himself the slightest shimmer of hope. His master was back, the bond was pulling, and things couldn't end in Azkaban again!

  


It was a great and terrible thing, to be alive in all aspects.

Voldemort had banished the rat into the manor once all his other servants had gone, so that he might stand alone and think. The graveyard was silent, a stark contrast to the yelling, spellcasting, and cracking of gravestones that had earlier permeated it. Voldemort felt a great urge to destroy the stones ever further – to raze the entire place to the ground and mix it all to gravel and dust. He held it back, for all that he twisted his wand between his fingers in a manner almost anxious.

The moonlight caught his skin. Instead of the pale glow that it would usually impart to human skin, sharper reflections glittered off his knuckles, fractured into tiny diamonds almost too small to see. The rituals he had performed to improve his eyesight and his sense of hearing still remained, and they showed him scales. He had of course noticed it immediately – difficult not to. He had not yet looked at his face, but given the _child’s_ look of horror, and his own surreptitious once-over with fingertips, he had to assume his features had been molded snakelike.

Strangely, he still felt nothing much about this beyond calm acceptance. Certainly this was not the intended outcome, and yet – he was functioning perfectly fine. If it was to be an entirely cosmetic change, then, why should he be worried?

There was a faint crack behind him. Voldemort did not bother to turn, but instead felt for the Dark Mark, and knew that it was Severus Snape.

Yet he was alone. Why had Barty not yet returned? And why would Severus return alone and without his compatriot, if he were loyal... Why indeed.

"Severus," Voldemort murmured. "I see the decade has not been kind to your previously impeccable punctuality."

  


"I'm sorry for lying to you all," Barty continued after a tense silence. "But for what it's worth: I didn't hurt any of the kids while I was here. Well, except for the Malfoy brat but you gotta give me that one. If not for me, Potter would have never survived the bloody tournament. Tell them that during my next trial."

When McGonagall looked at him, he wondered about the strange expression on her face. "There is no trial waiting for you, Barty Crouch Junior," she hissed at him, walking over to where he was magically tied to the blasted chair. "The penalty for escaping from Azkaban is the Kiss. Nothing more, nothing less."

A sense of dread washed over him. A Kiss. A dementor's Kiss. Fudge was there for the tournament, was he not?

"Professor, you can't do this to me!" he told her, voice brimming with fear. "You know what they're like! You liked me back in school, I was a good student, you can't, you can't let them steal my soul!"

He took great care to put an appropriate amount of terror into his voice and there was not a lot of acting involved if he was being honest.

McGonagall, meanwhile, came stalking over to him and aimed her wand at his face, right under his nose.

"You should have thought of that before you joined He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Barty Crouch Junior," she said, voice once again stern and unrelenting. "Your poor mother, dying in Azkaban for you, and the next chance you get, you follow him again!"

"He saved my life," Barty shot back. "Twelve years under the Imperious, under an Invisibility Cloak, do you even understand how fucking lonely that was?"

He made his lower lip tremble and felt tears collect in the corners of his eyes. McGonagall hesitated then, just for a second, but it was enough. Barty rushed forward, gripped the wand between his teeth and let himself fall onto his side.

The chair noisily clattered onto the ground and his shoulder protested as he awkwardly landed on it. Still, a wandless _Finite Incantatem_ was all it took for the bindings to disappear and he reached for the wand with his good hand.

McGonagall, pushed to the ground by the chair hitting her knees, glared at him defiantly but there was resignation in her eyes.

"Such a Gryffindor," he grinned, pointing the wand at her when he suddenly heard voices further down the corridor. There were new shapes in the fiend glass then, and they were drawing nearer.

  


"Well, Severus," Voldemort said, once he had grown tired of the feeble attempts at apology and excuses. "Have you anything relevant to say to me? Or ought I to presume your brain has melted from dealing with so many young fools every year?"

"My Lord," the potions master said. "I am pleased to tell you that, throughout these fourteen years of your absence, I have managed to acquire the trust of Albus Dumbledore. He believes me to be on his side. If my Lord desires, I can tell you as much as I know, root around for more if need be."

Well. That would be nice, wouldn't it? And oh so convenient, too.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the man.

"Is there some reason you come here alone, Severus?" he hissed – English, but with the unmistakable tinge of Parseltongue. "Do you have no more care left for your fellow servants to my cause?"

"My – my Lord?"

"Surely you aren't a fool now, Severus?" Voldemort's voice began to grow louder. "I know you were suspicious of Barty. He informed me so himself in his reports. And yet you appear before me before even seeking to aid him?"

"My Lord, I apologise, but he was caught. Minerva McGonagall was watching him too closely, and the Minister was on his way with a dementor to deliver the Kiss – "

Voldemort's vision went white. Before he could control his own reaction, he began to scream at Severus, words falling from his mouth that he had not prepared to fall. How dare he _leave_ the boy –

" _Crucio!_ "

Ah... it never did get old to hear grown men shrieking in agony.

Voldemort tilted his wand just so, adjusting the intensity of the torture curse that had taken hold of Severus' body. He saw no reason to repeat his yelling – the man wouldn't be able to hear him, in this state, and Voldemort felt so suffused by rage that he had gone past screaming anyway. He was calm, despite it all. He felt cold.

  


Where to go? How to get out? They were out in the corridor, and they were closing in! He put McGonagall into a body-bind almost absent-mindedly.

" _Colloportus,_ " Barty chanted as quietly as he could. That was only a bandaid on an arterial wound, though. There wasn't much time and –

A beautiful idea took root in his brain and Barty had reached the magic suitcase in three long strides. There, in compartment four, he found what he'd been looking for – a broom!

There was no time now, no time at all, as he ran over towards the window and blasted it straight out the wall with a desperate " _Bombarda!_ "

He jumped before the smoke had cleared and then he was flying, flying towards freedom from prison and loneliness and wrong bodies forevermore. Finally!

The sudden cold hit him like a wall and he was acutely aware of the fact that June nights shouldn't be this fucking cold, which meant...

"Bloody hell, can't a convicted criminal get a bloody _rest_ ," he groaned, looking over his shoulder where two dementors were hot on his heels.

  


One long cruciation later, Voldemort was not feeling any better. However, he did cease to torment Severus, aware that any further damage to the nerves before the man was allowed time to heal might well fry his brain or give him permanent nerve damage. Instead, he had Severus sit up and begin to talk – about Potter. How Potter had appeared when arriving back at the school. Dumbledore's actions as of tonight. Anything which Severus knew of Potter's schooling and habits.

According to Severus, the child was loud, boisterous, arrogant, and thought himself above the rules. Voldemort was not unfamiliar with such a personality. However, in Potter's case, unlike in Voldemort's own case, the sense of superiority was far from warranted. Harry James Potter was an obstacle – a weak boy whose only fate was to die young. Nothing more or less.

He did not particularly want to think of Potter. However, it was better, for the moment, than thinking about Barty's potential fate.

(Why did he always lose his favorites?)

  


He hadn't been able to use that spell all year for fear his totem would alert anyone of his real identity. Or rather, for fear of showing them he wasn't Alastor Moody whose honey badger patronus was well-known as a harbinger of doom among the death eaters.

He prayed it would work, prayed it would be enough –

He'd been under the Cloak, as always, dreading the long night that awaited him but dreading the seductive light of daylight outside even more. A knock on the door. His father stunned, thrown back into the wall opposite, to reveal – _him_.

Truly, had anyone's heart ever jumped higher?

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A silver coyote sprang from his wand and screeched before charging at the pursuing dementors.

There, the edge of the grounds! Just a little more, just a little, just...!

The moment he'd passed the wards, Barty Apparated to Little Hangleton in full-flight and screamed when he hadn't lost any speed upon reappearing in the graveyard. He pulled at the broom with all of his might, narrowly avoided a gravestone or two, and finally found himself rolling along the ground before colliding with a gravestone at what was thankfully not breakneck speed anymore.

Slightly dazed but incredibly relieved, he allowed himself a second or thirty to just catch his breath and exist in fucking _freedom_.

  


"What of the boy's friends?" Voldemort mused. "Does he still associate with the Weasley and the mudblood girl?"

"Unfortunately so, my Lord – "

There was an ear-splitting crack. Somebody screamed. Voldemort instinctively leapt out of the way of the rushing noise that filled the air, apparating a very short distance backwards without much thought. There was a thud, followed by a series of slightly more muffled thuds, and then a final, more stone-like thud. Somebody was breathing heavily. A broom skipped across the ground like a cartwheel, clattering on gravestones and chipping its handle until it smashed into a particularly thick granite slab, and lay still.

About ten seconds passed and nothing more happened.

"Who goes there?" Voldemort snarled, adjusting his grip on his wand.

  


That voice, the voice, the voice he'd heard in his every dream, urging him on to be brave for one more day. Every day, just one more day of being brave, of being strong..!

"Master," Barty whispered, voice choked up when the bond finally loosened enough to stop the dreadful pulling in his chest.

It was a laborious affair to get up, clinging to the gravestone he'd landed against, but get up he had to, for his master had called.

When he looked up, his breath stopped and he looked at the otherworldly man standing in the glow of the huge ritual cauldron he'd spent so much of his teacher salary on.

Lord Voldemort had ascended above mere mortal – that much had been clear from the start, but now, this! He felt his jaw go slack and wished he wouldn't look as unkempt as he surely did.

His hair was too long and his clothes too big because they were still Moody's and yet, he quite forgot about his own appearance as he slowly walked towards his master.

"You're back," he whispered, six feet away from him and not daring to go any closer. He spared no further thought at seeing the traitor there and simply dropped to his knees, awed and overwhelmed and trying his best to keep the tears (real ones this time) threatening to fall from his eyes in check.

  


"Master," Voldemort just barely heard – it was on the very edges of his perception, a whisper. It could not be, he thought. But a head of blonde hair rose over the gravestone, held up only by trembling arms, and the cold that had taken Voldemort's insides finally removed its deathly grip.

Barty.

He was alive.

He was, in fact, staring. Internally Voldemort frowned, wondering why. Why would he stare so... perhaps the scales. Perhaps they were not effective after all, as a form – but no, he thought, as he looked again. Barty's stare held no disgust, while he was quite certain that Severus' had. It was merely the same awe and reverence which Voldemort was used to seeing upon his favorite servant's face – perhaps even magnified from what Voldemort recalled.

Barty looked a bit worse for wear otherwise. The boy dragged himself to a spot only just clear of the gravestones and dropped to his knees. Voldemort peered at him – through his enhanced vision, he thought he saw his servant's eyes tearing up. But was it in pain, or from some other emotion?

"You're back," he only barely heard the boy whisper. Awe, then? Happiness? Voldemort knew that some humans could cry from happiness. It had never happened to him – but he had heard of it, seen alleged examples.

"So I am," he told his servant. "You have done well, Barty."

An afterthought, he glared to the side, where the black-haired potions master still knelt. "Severus," he snapped. "Go into the manor and find somewhere to sit and keep out of the way. Do not leave until I return and finish our discussion."

He twitched his wand subtly, in a warning. The black-clad man hurried off, limbs still shaking from the Cruciatus. Voldemort watched him until he was certain that he had gone, and turned back to Barty.

"Severus spoke as if your fate were sealed," he said to Barty. "Tell me what occurred."

  


And somehow, that one compliment made it all worth it. That whole blasted year spent in Moody's decaying slab of a body.

He'd _done well_.

"Oh, it was nothing much in the grand scheme of things," Barty shrugged, wincing when the shoulder he'd landed on gave a little tug. Never had been good with healing spells, had he?

"They left only McGonagall to watch over me and I got into her head a little. She got careless, I got her wand and knocked her over." He sat back onto his haunches, content to bask in his master's presence and forgetting what had troubled him all these months. "Here's where it gets interesting. They were already coming but I blasted the window out, hopped on a broom and cleared the wards. There were dementors, too, but I can still cast the Patronus," he fondly remembered. "And you know the rest. Apparated here, made a fool of myself. The usual."

His laugh was a little wheezy. He hadn't used his own in quite some time but he almost desperately wanted to get used to it again.

"I'm... really glad our plan worked out, master. I don't know what I would have done, had it failed."

  


Voldemort tapped his wand idly against his palm as he listened to Barty speak. A broom.... useful enough, he supposed, but perhaps he ought to consider teaching his servant the spell for unaided flight, if such dramatic escapades were to continue being a threat to his life.

That wheezy laugh made it rather clear, though. The boy was in shock. Well, there was nothing to be done about that but allow him to sleep. Voldemort was not one for idleness, in himself or in his servants, but if any one of their number deserved a night of sleep before further discussion with their Lord, it was certainly Barty in this moment.

"You are favoring one shoulder," he observed quietly. He did not wish to speak, or even think, about the plan's potential failure. It had not failed – that was all that mattered. "Is it injured? Are you otherwise well, or have you more injuries? And do not minimise, Barty," he added, giving the boy a hard look.

  


"Oh, that," Barty drawled, looking down at his shoulder. "I landed on it poorly when I overturned my chair, back with McGonagall. I don't know what it is, but it's not dislocated. Might just be bruised badly. I was always rubbish with healing and diagnostics, you know that."

He took stock of the rest of his body and shook his head. "Nothing else, I think, except a couple more scraps and bruises. Might be wise to take a potion against those if you have any. Otherwise, I'll be fine till the morning."

He paused.

"Thanks for asking though. It was rather lonely in Hogwarts. Though – not as lonely as before when you... when you saved me. I can't thank you enough, my lord Voldemort, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you."

With that, he crawled over to kneel again at his master's bare feet and kissed the hems of his robes in the customary greeting. He stayed there, robes pressed against his face, and allowed himself to take it in with his skin and not only his eyes.

  


Voldemort watched Barty carefully as the boy crawled over to kiss his robes. It was true he favored the shoulder, but not overly so, and nothing else appeared to be causing him issues. The Dark Lord nodded to himself. He would allow his servant to rest, then. Tomorrow they could finish the debrief, and then... they would have to leave. Much as Voldemort hated to abandon a useful base, Potter had been here, and it had been mentioned that his biological father was buried in this graveyard. All that would need to be done was tell Dumbledore, and with a bit of searching... it was possible they would be too easily found, if he kept his base of operations here.

Barty was still prostrated before him. Voldemort squinted at him.

"You may thank me for your life, Barty, with your continued excellent service," he said. "Now go rest. In the morning you shall inform me in more detail of what went on during your year, and especially today and this evening." He paused. "You will also speak with me about Severus Snape. But not right now. Come, follow me." He pulled his robes away, a subtle indication to stand.

  


Barty's fingers twitched when the fabric left his grasp but he forced himself not to show his loss. Instead, he got on his feet as lightly as he could and was happy to find that other than some minor stinging here and there, everything worked well enough.

"It's good to be myself again," he told the night around them and flexed his fingers experimentally. "Well, you would know, wouldn't you?"

He'd been Moody almost around the clock, always paranoid someone might snuff out the secret if he wasn't careful. He'd even drank some more of the blasted Polyjuice shortly before falling asleep..! Potter's map had been a reprieve of –

The map! Barty frantically started patting down his pockets and pulled the parchment out of his inner breast pocket with a cry of triumph.

"Ooh, you're gonna love this so much. I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good!"

He gleefully watched the names and floors appear and felt his heart beating excitedly in his chest. If there was such a thing as a promotion among Death Eaters, this one would be his key, he supposed.

He held the map out to Voldemort with ill-concealed excitement.

  


Voldemort paused as Barty suddenly gasped and ceased walking. Turning, though, there was no threat – merely an excitable Barty patting himself down. With a yell, he pulled a piece of old, tattered parchment out of his breast pocket, uttered some sort of – nonsense phrase? A passcode, Voldemort thought, watching as ink began to streak across the previously blank parchment.

Barty was grinning widely, practically bouncing on the balls of his toes, when he held it out. Voldemort gently captured it between his fingers and eyed the image. It was a map – no, wait, he thought, as he began to read the key. This was a map of _Hogwarts_. And there –

Harry Potter, in the hospital wing, the names Poppy Pomphrey and Molly Weasley standing by. Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Cornelius Fudge in the Defense Office, but moving quickly out and into the hallway, towards the hospital wing – _perhaps_ towards the hospital wing, he corrected himself, though really, where else would they be going – ?

 _The Marauder's Map_ , it said in the top right hand corner. _Property of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs._

Wormtail... _really_.

Voldemort stroked a hand across the parchment. By pressing on the little sets of footprints, he could force the names to spring apart for readability if too many persons were clustered all together, as they were in each of the House dormitories – all of which were _on the map_. Why – his eyes quickly scanned all the floors. Only the Hidden Room and the Chamber appeared to be missing, insofar as Voldemort was aware.

A smile curled its way onto Voldemort's face. He was rather helpless to stop it, but did not mind its presence, either. "Ah, Barty," he murmured. "You continue to go above and beyond for your Lord... Wherever did you find this?"

  


Seeing his master smile because of something he'd done made Barty feel like his chest might explode from pride. He bit his lower lip to regain some composure.

"Potter had it. I took it from him because it's a _‘dangerous magical artifact’_ ," he rasped in Moody's voice and chuckled to himself. Who'd have thought being able to imitate voices would one day help resurrect the Dark Lord?

"He won't be happy that it's gone for good now. I might have alluded to him getting it back after my year was over..."

Here, Barty allowed himself another bright grin, so much easier than the caricature of one on Moody's scar-riddled face, before he looked up at Voldemort.

Standing so close, he realised just how much he had to crane his neck to look at his master and his grin grew a little wider. What a magnificent body the ritual had gifted them!

  


Potter had it?

 _Potter_ had had it? And even better, Barty had told Potter he would be getting it back! Voldemort couldn't help himself but to let out a short "hah!" of laughter. How strange, to laugh after so long – he rarely laughed, even before. But this was good, a pleasant victory over the utterly irritating child.

"No, he will not be happy," Voldemort said. He watched a moment longer as Dumbledore, McGonagall, and the Minister entered the hospital wing and clustered around Potter's bed before finally folding the map shut and tucking it into his own robes. "Lord Voldemort will accept this as Potter's due for being allowed to live past tonight. He certainly will not be getting it back."

Barty was grinning up at Voldemort when the Dark Lord turned his mind back to the present, and his gaze back towards his servant. Still no disgust. Voldemort supposed, too, that perhaps he ought to look at himself in a mirror before deciding either way.

"Any more hidden treasures, Barty? Or are you ready to enjoy a night of rest? I must still finish interrogating Severus for his..." Voldemort paused delicately. "Insights into Potter and Dumbledore."

Barty was smart enough to recognise that which went unsaid – that Lord Voldemort found Severus Snape a suspicious source of information, and not to trust the man unduly.

  


"You say 'Mischief Managed' to hide the markings on the map again," Barty explained. "I have no more hidden treasures except for the knowledge that Potter also has an invisibility cloak, and a good one, too."

Not even Moody's eye had been able to pierce through it. Instead, he'd had to pretend it did when actually, Potter's loud breath had betrayed him.

"Snape is... yeah, no. That's a can of worms I can't get into tonight." Barty shook his head as if to get rid of some of the cobwebs. "I'd gladly tell you all about my opinion of Severus Snape and all the other major players calling Hogwarts their home. But for now, rest sounds really amazing," he confessed with a lazy, tired smile.

What a good day. What a relief! All he wanted currently was to maybe eat, _definitely_ sleep and then bask some more in the victory he'd helped bring about.

  


"How trite... 'Mischief Managed'," Voldemort murmured, tapping the parchment. He watched as the ink ran into thinner and thinner lines, finally vanishing entirely. He put it back in his robes.

"Do not allow Severus to hear you calling him that," Voldemort said – but not sternly. It was, perhaps, more of a joke. They had finally reached the manor, and so Voldemort waved the door open as he stepped over the threshold. "I look forward to hearing your comprehensive analysis, Barty. For now, there ought to be food remaining in the kitchen for your perusal. The beds remain upstairs. I will see you in the morning for your debriefing."

He glanced around, saw Pettigrew – _Wormtail, how interesting_ – shrinking into a corner of the lower living room. He appeared to be trying to escape notice. Severus was nowhere to be seen, but had entered through this door... "Wormtail," Voldemort snapped. "Where is Severus?"

The rat squeaked and pointed towards the front of the house. The old dining room, perhaps. "Th-there, Master," he whimpered.

"I see. Get out of my sight," Voldemort told the tiny man, who quickly scuttled off. "As for you," he turned to look at Barty, forcing himself to soften his voice, "eat, sleep. After you give your report I will require your service in cleaning this place of our presence and moving to a new location. I will not tolerate weakness due to lack of sleep. Now go attend to yourself."

He gave the usual gesture of dismissal, to ensure there was no misinterpretation. Barty, Voldemort had found, had only one major flaw – he could never take the hint to leave. Any other hint, perhaps – but to leave? He needed to be explicitly told.

  


Barty nodded, watching his master walk over to where Snape seemed to have scuttled off to. He'd been shaking when he'd walked up to the manor, so there might have been some Crucio involved.

He refused to feel pity for the greasy git and walked past Wormtail to get to the kitchen.

"Cheers, mate," he whispered with a grin. "No more diapers, eh? Smooth sailing from now on, I'm telling you!"

Wormtail looked perplexed at being addressed, flexing the silver appendage they'd talked about while finalising their plans. When no answer was forthcoming, Barty shrugged and went into the kitchen.

There was some bread on a counter and a pot of stew on the stove. It was no Hogwarts feast but Wormtail wasn't the worst cook in the world. Once his belly was full, Barty sighed and looked with longing towards where his master had walked off to.

The dismissal had been clear, yet – what if his services were required further? He'd promised to get rest, though, and his mark would alert him if there was something needed of him.

Mind thus made up, Barty made his way up towards one of the guest bedrooms and simply collapsed onto one of the beds without taking off Moody's clothes or even crawling under the covers.

He was out like a light in no time at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates roughly twice a week depending on our mood. As stated, over 550k of this was written in arrears.


	2. Leaving Little Hangleton

_Sleep_. Sleep, glorious sleep. For all the frustrations of the previous night, Voldemort awoke from true sleep at the crack of dawn in the master bedroom of the Riddle Manor for the first time in over a decade, feeling loose and relaxed and almost impossibly refreshed. He had forgotten what sleep was like. He remembered resenting his need for it. Why had he ever felt that way? Sleep was enjoyable. Surely it was one of the great pleasures of life!

His younger self, Voldemort decided, had been foolish to discount it.

Still, he was rested. He could sleep again tonight. For now, there was work to do, so the Dark Lord rose, gently pushing Nagini from his waist and placing his bare feet on the floor.

In the daylight he could see more colors, so he took the opportunity to inspect his new body once again, without the barrier of clothing. His conclusions remained the same – he had scales replacing his skin even in the more flexible areas such as his fingers and his face. But they were so tiny in those areas as to be almost unnoticeable, but for the harsher sheen they gave him. They were pale and silvery, almost white, not quite a proper human skin color, but almost close enough to be mistaken for a very pale Englishman. Of course, the face quite prevented that. His lips, though present, were thin and pale. His nose was less a nose and more a pair of slits, which, somehow, did not make breathing any different than he remembered. He had no eyelashes, eyebrows, or hair on his head or anywhere else on his body. But the scales on his brows were almost ridged, and managed to create the sense of eyebrows anyway, so that at least he had his full range of expressions.

Nagini loved it. She was waxing poetic about how gorgeous he looked. Voldemort, for his part, still could not decide whether he liked it. He could still glamour himself human, though, and so he would not seek to change it for now.

He dressed, still glamoured, transfigured a robe into a suit, and went to town to eat.

  


When Barty finally woke up, the sun was already nearing its zenith and he bolted wide awake immediately. He was supposed to pack!

He jumped out of bed, cringed slightly at his still sore shoulder and started to _Finite Incantatem_ everything in the room he'd slept in until it was empty of everything they'd conjured.

He went through the other guest rooms and did the same before stopping in the bathroom to relieve himself and scrub at his face and under his armpits. The day he'd have fitting robes and a working shower again couldn't come soon enough.

He sized the thick robes he was wearing down and changed the fabric to be more breathy. Time for Lucius to use that Malfoy money for good. But, well, his master was going to have a new wardrobe sponsored by the Malfoys of course. He'd just use the rest of the teacher salary he'd gotten in galleons from old man Dumbledore.

Being known for paranoia had come in handy for avoiding Gringotts. Lost in thought, he stopped in front of the master bedroom and knocked though the door was partially open.

There was no answer and he certainly wasn't going to barge in without one so he went down the stairs. Wormtail was sitting on one of the cozy armchairs, still flexing his fingers. He looked like he hadn't slept.

"Oi, Wormtail, a hand here. The rats are abandoning the ship," he quipped and stuffed a piece of bread in his mouth, happy he would finally be able to gain some weight again now the transformations were over.

"Where's our master?" he asked while busying himself with removing every trace of them having been there. "Did he say anything?"

"He, uh, went into town," Wormtail answered haltingly and started helping him by moving things from left to right and back again. By hand.

How him and _that guy_ had managed to single-handedly resurrect the greatest wizard the world had ever seen, he'd never know.

Once he'd cleaned out most of downstairs, only allowing the most comfortable armchair to remain for Lord Voldemort, Barty went outside to enjoy the sun on his face.

He sat down next to the entrance, leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes to soak up the sun he'd sorely missed all those years.

  


It had taken longer than Voldemort had wished. However, the morning had been, generally speaking, a success. Seemed old-fashioned manners were still welcome in at least a small muggle town, and so he was able to confund his way through obtaining breakfast and coffee despite a lack of funds.

This had led to a new realization about his new body – the teeth. They were... well, still human enough, he thought. But they were also sharper than he remembered. His canines and his bicuspids were faintly curved, angling back into his mouth rather than straight down. He suspected, when he looked into a mirror, that they would look more snake than human.

Well. Let it not be said Lord Voldemort could not roll with the punches.

After a long and leisurely meal, taken slowly to ensure his new stomach would hold food properly (it did), he made his way through the local supermarket and general stores, swiping newspapers and even some magazines that caught his attention as he did so. He needed to understand current events in both worlds in order to be able to function. The magical world would require back-orders of the Prophet, but the muggle world could be started here and now. Later, he would need to find a library close to wherever they relocated, and see if there was any microfiche to scroll through.

He finally made his way back to the Manor a bit past noon, taking care to shrink and hide all the magazines and newspapers (ill-gotten, of course) in the inner pocket of his transfigured suit. It would not do for his wizarding servants to see their Lord and Master with muggle trappings about his person.

Barty was awake – perhaps waiting for him? But perhaps just sun-bathing, given the boy's position where he relaxed against the wall. He almost appeared to be sleeping. Voldemort wondered if he was.

"Awake, I see," he called out as he finished ascending the steps.

  


Barty was startled from somewhere between sleep and relaxation by a new yet familiar voice and opened his eyes. He blinked against the force of the sun and grinned when he saw his master return.

"You look different," he observed matter-of-factly and got up. "I liked the you from yesterday, too. Then again, I like all versions of you so I'm probably not the best to ask for impartial advice."

His stomach gave a traitorous growl then and Barty frowned down at it. "Is that a way to greet our master? Shame on you. I might need to go eat some more, master. These constant transformations have really taken their toll." Here, he shook his head, almost personally affronted by his body not willing to do its part.

"I've already packed everything but the master bedroom and some kitchen knick knacks up, by the way." Then, almost as an afterthought: "Oh and if you have some time and energy to spare, I'd really appreciate it if you could do something about my shoulder. It's been bugging me all morning and I wasn't gonna let _Wormtail_ heal it."

  


Voldemort tilted his head and narrowed his eyes in amusement as Barty leapt up. "Merely a glamour," he informed the boy. "I imagine the muggles would be ill-prepared to cope with a man with scales."

Barty may have been about to respond, but instead, his stomach growled. He began to berate it, amusing Voldemort further, though he was soon distracted by the statement that the boy had already packed and cleaned.

"Have you now?" he hummed. "Excellent. That will expedite our departure. Come. Get a bit more food, and then come to the main sitting room. I will heal your shoulder after I debrief you."

He gestured for Barty to follow him, and swept into the house, allowing his glamour to drop. The interior was, just as Barty had put it, quite well packed with the exception of a single armchair left in the sitting room.

  


Barty hummed in agreement and made his way to the kitchen. One relatively plain sandwich later, gods but they needed to get groceries, he joined his master in the sitting room.

He didn't know where Wormtail had gone but assumed he was up in one of the rooms of the first floor. For some reason, even though he'd spent a year with their Lord, Wormy still seemed to be afraid of him.

Since Lord Voldemort was occupying the armchair, Barty confidently walked up to him, got on his knees and bowed low before settling on his haunches.

"I kept notes during the year," he shared, pulling a tattered old notebook from his too-big clothes that had lost their Transfiguration again while he'd been half-asleep. "Stuff about kids of well-known families that seemed important, notes about the teachers, Dumbledore, safety concepts and the like. I was in charge of safety protocols during the tournament by the way and I didn't even have to apply myself to improve them. Hogwarts is a travesty. "

  


Lord Voldemort returned his transfigured muggle suit to the robes they truly were while he waited for Barty to return. The remainder of the time was spent watching the goings-on of Hogwarts on that wondrous map that Barty had produced last night. Potter, it seemed, was still in the hospital wing. Voldemort explored the magical parchment until he sensed footsteps approaching, and tucked it away.

He took the notebook when it was offered to him, paging through briefly. Cramped handwriting met his eyes, admittedly at least labeled with headings in some sort of rough organization. He would have to give the 'Dumbledore', 'Potter', and 'Security' sections a more thorough read at first opportunity – but there were other things to do first.

"I am particularly interested," Voldemort began, "in anything which you have observed of Potter, but before we get into that topic, is there anything extremely urgent or important regarding security flaws at the castle? Are there any security protocols you instituted which they are likely to tear down now that you have been revealed?"

Voldemort allowed himself a private, internal smirk at the thought.

  


Barty gave that some thought. "I mostly implemented security for the tournament and the Yule Ball which won't be a concern next year. As is, there's precious little when it comes to security except for what is ingrained in the castle. It's in the book," he added. "There's mostly ancient wards and self-defense mechanisms within the castle. Walking, fighting statues, that kinda thing. The map shows ways into and out of Hogwarts though. There's one from the cellar of Honeydukes, actually."

Barty drummed his fingers together while talking, thinking of where to start with Potter.

"The boy, Potter, he's... absolutely ordinary, for the most part. His best subject is Defense but he's only mediocre in the rest. Rubbish at Potions though I'm not sure whether that's entirely his fault. Snape's a surly old bastard on the best days. Other than that, his friend Granger, the muggleborn girl, now _she's_ brilliant but fortunately, the Weasley boy is his _best_ friend and he's the one who holds him back."

Barty thought a little more, rocking himself gently back and forth. "For some reason, he's almost immune against the Imperius Curse. Tried it myself, and he could withstand it. Stubborn little bugger, Gryffindor through and through. He's not a bad kid, to be honest, but definitely not a hero."

  


"Ah, yes," Voldemort hummed, as Barty mentioned Severus. He listened carefully to the short speech about Potter, making mental notes to follow up on later. If only he had had Barty's notes sooner, to have been forewarned of that little Imperius stunt Potter could pull. For now, though...

"No sign of any special training for Potter? Even special treatment," Voldemort drawled. "Our Severus was quite insistent that the boy is an arrogant brat. I do wonder why it is that two of my servants hold such differing opinions, Barty. You mentioned last night that you might talk for days of Severus's 'can of worms'." He allowed the ghost of a smile to grace his face, but then grew serious. "What say you of Severus? Is he loyal?"

  


Barty bristled uncomfortably. That statement had been loaded but he was sure he could follow it up with facts.

"Snape is one of Dumbledore's closest confidantes. They talk much in his office, I saw it on the map. Dumbledore asks his opinion on everything, especially during the tournament. But... Snape is not a good actor, master, never has been. He can do Occlumency and fake a blank face, but he can't do, hm, what I did with Moody for a year, for example."

A hand came up and ran through his hair. He tugged a little at the too long locks and frowned in concentration. It was good to be able to move freely again.

"He's friends with the old man. If you were to give him Veritaserum, he'd admit it. Reluctantly, but he'd admit it. He was in love with Potter's mother, back in school. Until a... thing in my third year, they were best friends but Potter and his band of cronies broke their friendship. I'm... reasonably sure he's never quite gotten over her. And, well, you killed her? He probably didn't like that."

He was quiet again, looking down at his master's feet and itching to touch like he'd done all those endless years ago. Patience, he bade himself. Don't overwhelm the man. Be a good boy.

"As for Potter.. He mentioned that Remus Lupin taught him the Patronus charm in third year because his reaction to the dementors was so extreme. Other than that, no special training at all. Old man Dumbledore didn't even keep an eye on 14-year-old Harry during the tournament. If I hadn't stepped in, he'd have been ground beef after the dragon."

  


How very fascinating. Voldemort sat back to think.

It was not... altogether unexpected for Severus to have changed his tune. But knowing the man, he'd have changed it only insofar as he needed to, to appear loyal to either side – to play both sides, perhaps.

Or so Voldemort would have assumed. But friendship, now, that was a nasty little thing, wasn't it? The Dark Lord himself had never had friends, but he was aware of how the possession of such relationships could twist the thinking of even the human who was otherwise the most hardened and aloof of killers.

(He had never had human friendships, Voldemort considered distantly, but he was certainly twisted up in such a way for Nagini. Had been cold enough when he had thought that Barty was lost.)

No – friendship, Voldemort was aware, was powerful. If there was any truth in Barty's observations, he could not consider Severus to be at all repairable as a servant and tool. He would continue to allow the man to believe that he had Voldemort fooled, of course, for undoubtedly he was meaning to function as a spy. He would rather Dumbledore believe he had an in, and keep an eye on said in, before leaving the old coot to try getting another in where Voldemort's eyes might be less able to see the leak.

The information about Potter was similarly interesting, but for a very different reason. The boy had had no special training? His performance last night was entirely luck? Natural skill? Some unholy combination of the twain? And yet should not Dumbledore be trying to shore up that natural skill even more, if that was the raw clay he had to work with? Curious indeed...

But if Potter was not being specially trained, then how much of a concern was the boy, in the end?

Voldemort folded his hands together once more. "It is a pity you will be unable to retain Potter's confidence. I will read these notes and call for another report once I have processed them. Now come, we will be going to Malfoy manor."

  


Malfoy manor then, huh? Maybe he should transform the traitor Lucius too, complete the ferret set. Alas, his master wouldn't appreciate it if he were to rock the boat so early.

He'd promised each man and woman would get their due in time. Barty, for his part, quite hoped that healing the bloody shoulder was part of his due but if there was one thing he'd learned in his life, it was never to ask twice.

"Do your other servants know that I'm not dead, master? Would you like me to use a glamour to hide my true identity?"

He got up and transfigured his robes and coat back into something presentable. What would he choose to look like? He thought back to his master's more human-like appearance from earlier. Brown hair, perhaps? Dark eyes? Some cheekbone? A secretive little smile wandered onto his face.

  


Voldemort tilted his head, and tapped his wand against his cheek.

"Your identity remains unknown," he said, "but admittedly, you were uncovered at Hogwarts. We shall wait to reveal you to your fellow servants until or unless it becomes useless to pretend otherwise, but in case your presence is not reported by the Prophet, for now you shall take another look." He stood at the same time as Barty. "But first, I must attend to your shoulder. You will show me the bruising so I may ascertain which spells you require."

He removed his wand from his robes and strode forwards, going over spells in his mind. The Dark Lord's red eyes fell on Barty expectantly.

  


He'd remembered..! Relief washed over him, not only because the pain was about to stop but also because he'd _remembered_.

Yet, Barty's mind blanked while trying to think of a way to reveal his shoulder without... stripping in front of his master. He hesitated but ultimately realised there was no easy way around this.

He removed the coat he'd transfigured into an overrobe and hung it over a hastily conjured hook in the wall. Next, he started unbuttoning his robes as much as he needed to wriggle his arm free from the sleeve and bare his right side.

"Thankfully not my wand arm," he muttered, looking fondly at his left hand and arm where his Dark Mark was carefully hidden under his sleeve. "It mostly hurts here," he said, indicating towards the part his collarbone nearest to his shoulder. When he looked down, he saw a big, purple bruise slightly bleeding out at the edges staring back at him and felt his eyebrows rise. That one looked angry.

Thankfully, he was preoccupied enough with the bruise not to pay too much attention to his master getting a glimpse of the state of his slightly emaciated body.

  


Voldemort watched as Barty maneuvered partially out of his clothing, working hard to prevent his eyebrows – or, his eye ridges, perhaps? –from betraying his slight consternation. The human body was not an unfamiliar sight to Voldemort, but he was similarly familiar with the ways it should not look. Barty's ribs showed, and the bruise across his collarbone was angry and deep purple, totally discoloring the otherwise pale skin.

Barty indicated the painful portion of the bruise. It was directly over the collarbone, so Voldemort cast a general diagnostic for broken bones before proceeding. Ah – a faint crack across the thin rod. Voldemort reached out and gently prodded at it, getting a sense for how deep it ran, before casting a mending charm. He followed it with another diagnostic to ensure the break had gone, and finally a charm to reduce the bleeding and swelling.

"It will require a bruise salve that we do not currently have on hand to fully heal," he informed the boy. "But that ought to have alleviated much of the problem."

  


When Lord Voldemort's fingers ghosted over his skin, assessing damage most likely, Barty tried his best to suppress a shudder at the contact.

How long had it been since he'd last had tender contact with another human being? Before Azkaban, surely. His skin tingled and kept tingling when the hand had gone, only to be replaced with powerful magic that washed over him like a wave crashing onto the shore.

He almost staggered but caught himself just in time. The brief pain of bone mending and swelling going down grounded him again but the flush rising on his cheeks was a bit much in his opinion. To have an explanation other than 'Wow your magic feels amazing!', he hissed as if in pain.

"Ahh, ffff – uuh, finally whole again." He quickly buttoned his things up and shrugged on his overrobe. "Thank you very much, master, it's a lot better already!"

He turned around and let his wand fly out from his holster and into his hand. Go do something, don't give your master a reason to think you're faulty, his subconscious egged him on.

"Maybe the Malfoys' apothecary is stocked better than ours and has a salve for me," he shrugged, happy when his shoulder didn't protest. "Would you like me to pack up the kitchen while you take care of the master bedroom? Or shall I do both? I wouldn't want to unduly disturb Nagini, of course."

  


Voldemort almost moved to catch his servant as he staggered, but Barty managed to catch himself. The Dark Lord left it alone, deciding it would be rude to draw undue attention to his servant's momentary weakness. Of course, he had seen – but if he pretended he had not noticed, it would be more likely to put the boy at ease. Unfortunately, it seemed that he hadn't entirely been successful – the speed with which his servant replaced his clothing attested to that.

Voldemort held back a small head-shake, and resolved to ignore it. Nothing would come of it, in any case.

"I do hope the Malfoys would have such an apothecary, yes," Voldemort remarked. "If they do not, I am sure the issue will be quickly... sorted out," he mused.

"Attend to the kitchen, if you would. I shall pack the bedroom, as Nagini may yet be unruly about having her nap disturbed." Of course she was going to be unruly. She was probably going to try her best to complain his ears off. "Once you are done, await me outside the threshold. Ensure Wormtail shows his face and does not shirk his duties."

He gave another gesture of dismissal, and began to proceed upstairs.

  


Barty allowed himself to stare after his master for a while before shaking his head to get rid of the cobwebs trying to take over his mind. That time under the blasted cloak really hadn't been good for him.

He sniffed out Wormy who was hiding out in a corner of the kitchen in his rat form and made him help with packing.

"We're going to the Malfoys' place next. Our Lord wants me to remain mister X for a while, yeah? So no naming names. Any idea for a cool nickname for me?"

Wormtail quickly shook his head no and continued packing Potion ingredients into a cauldron. "I'll just call you what you tell me to call you," the smaller man mumbled without meeting his eyes.

Barty shrugged and they continued packing in silence. When they were done, Barty levitated the two suitcases to the others he'd packed, shrunk them all down and put them in his coat pocket.

Was James too butler-y? It had been the name of Potter's father, so maybe not the best choice in any case. Maybe just Mr. X? Or a normal name, something simple. Edward was good and neutral. Edward Smith.

Nodding to himself, he got Wormtail to wait in front of the house with him and rocked back and forth on his heels. He enjoyed smelling the beautiful June summer's day with his own nose and having the sun shine on him once more tremendously.

  


Nagini did complain, and made a valiant attempt to hiss his ears off. He ended up promising her the run of the peacocks to chase at Malfoy manor. At that, she perked up and finally changed her tune – slithering onto his shoulders instead, where she proved to be something of a burden for packing. But the weight of her was enjoyable, so, on his shoulders she stayed.

When he had finished he felt the twinge of muscles as he proceeded down the stairs. Blasted resurrection ritual couldn't have restored him to his previous physical state completely, now could it? That would have been too easy, of course. He would have to recondition himself back into shape.

Voldemort's mind worked vaguely at this problem as he proceeded to the threshold. Barty and Wormtail stood there, Barty looking excited, Wormtail nervous and as if he'd rather be anywhere else. Voldemort held back the urge to sneer, and hid the nervous tick of wishing-to-curse by moving up a hand to flip the dark hood of his cloak over his scaled head.

"Barty," he said clearly, looking the boy over. "Have you thought of a name, and do you require aid with your glamour before we depart?"

  


Barty snapped back into focus when he heard his name called and smiled blissfully when Voldemort stepped out of the house. Had it truly been less than a day since they'd resurrected the greatest wizard who'd ever lived and since he himself had been able to shed all the wrong skin?

His grin grew brighter. Now there was a snake metaphor!

"I'll be Edward Smith, master. They might try to research whether I have anything to do with the real Smiths and land in a dead-end."

With a flourish, Barty pointed his wand at himself and incanted lowly under his breath. To the naked eye, he filled out a little and his pale complexion darkened. His hair turned from dirty blonde to a dark brown and his dark blue eyes became hazel. For the face, he changed the shape of his eyes, made his nose longer and thinned his lips.

"I think that should be sufficient. Nobody has seen me in over a decade and everyone thinks I'm dead anyway, so... I guess we're good for now. Got everything packed and ready to go! Want me to make a portkey? I have practice thanks to the tournament!"

  


Barty's exuberance was almost... infectious, in a way. Voldemort found his lips attempting to smile, and had to force the sensation away. It didn't make any sense, but well...

Edward Smith. The Dark Lord did enjoy the idea of leading would-be investigators into a dead-end, and hummed. The face that Barty had chosen was also acceptable – darker than Barty's usual features, and a bit thinner. He nodded his acceptance as he fixed the image of it in his mind, so that he could recreate it in the future if needed, or coach Barty through an exact re-application.

"Very well," he said. "I don't want you to speak much while at the Malfoy estate and in Lucius or Narcissa's presence, lest they take note of some speech pattern. I will not explain your presence, so they will likely be curious. Do you understand, _Edward?_ "

He drew his wand. "A portkey is unnecessary at this time. I will be sending us through the Mark. Wormtail," he hissed, "your arm." The Dark Lord held out his hand.

  


Of all the things he had to do in his master's service, _keeping quiet_ was his least favourite. Yet, since he understood the need, he nodded solemnly and mimed a zipper drawing shut over his lips.

Wormy held his arm out reluctantly and flinched when Barty reached out to take a hold on his shoulder. When their master's wand touched the Mark, Wormy gave a weak groan and off they went.

When Barty could see clearly once more after the veritable trip that was Dark Mark Apparition (which was apparently a thing?), the first thing he noticed was Lucius' haunted face.

The man appeared to be in his office and looked like he hadn't slept in days. The dark shadows under his eyes spoke of the long night they'd had at the graveyard and Barty couldn't suppress a feeling of righteousness welling up inside him.

He knew he didn't have anything to fear because he'd been _loyal to a fault_. Who else but those imprisoned could say that about themselves?

"My Lord," Lucius exclaimed and sprang out of his chair. Barty and Wormy took a respectful couple steps back and watched Lucius prostrate himself. "I... didn't expect you this soon or I would have prepared everything for you!"

  


"Tsk, tsk, Lucius," Voldemort hummed, intentionally sardonic. "Surely you recognized that I would not be staying at the site of my resurrection? We shall have to train your mind back to sharpness, for I fear your years of ease have made it lax." Watching the fear grow on Malfoy's face was pleasant indeed. Ah, he truly had missed this part of being alive.

"You will be hosting Wormtail in your manor for the foreseeable future," Voldemort instructed. "Prepare a room for him for the long term. You shall also prepare a guest suite for me, and an additional guest room for Edward here." He gestured vaguely at Barty's disguised form to indicate who 'Edward' was. Lucius' squint was noticeable, but short-lived, and Voldemort had expected curiosity. He only made the vaguest of mental notes about it. "You will provide finances to me worth approximately ten thousand galleons. A mokeskin bag will do."

The barely-hidden expression of despair on Lucius' face was simply amazing.

"While you settle these matters, I shall be taking a walk around your estate. Edward, to me. Wormtail, stay here and do not make a nuisance of yourself or go off to hide as a rat."

  


Wormy ducked his head in his own insecure way of acknowledgement and slunk to the very edge of the room while Barty's chest puffed up a bit.

Lucius meanwhile nodded in response to his master's request (well, order) and was already grabbing for parchment and quill with the slightest tremor in his hand. Barty had been too young when he'd been incarcerated to have gained a good understanding of what money was worth but ten thousand galleons sounded like a lot.

He thought about how much money he still had from his teacher's salary that hadn't been spent on potion ingredients or supplies for the ritual. It should be around fifty galleons, give or take. He wondered whether he should get his master a little trinket for what had, for all intents and purposes, been his second birthday.

For now, he nodded politely at Lucius and Wormy before following his master at a respectful distance about one step behind and to the left. What would they be talking about? He was apparently not to stay with the Malfoys like Wormy was. Maybe he was going on another stealth mission? His stomach did a little flip of protest at the prospect of having to drink another drop of Polyjuice potion ever again but if his master demanded it, he'd grin and bear.


	3. Society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While editing this, I realised that we basically wrote a Shopping Trip Trope, except it's Voldemort and Barty instead of Super Powerful Harry Potter. Have fun with the trope character inversion. - Kit

Voldemort proceeded out of the Manor as quickly as he could without appearing hurried. His shoulders continued to twinge, and he desperately wanted Nagini to get _off_ of him.

It was only by the soft sound of footsteps that he knew Barty was still following him. That his orders were carried out so assiduously by at least one follower was gratifying. Voldemort spared a moment to wish all his servants were so thoroughly devoted, but only a moment. It did not do to dwell on dreams, what-should-bes or what-could-have-beens. He had learned that from an early age.

Finally they stepped onto the patio. Voldemort strode only so far as was necessary to reach the grass, and then halted, enjoying for a moment the sensation of it beneath his feet. With an intentionally relaxed sort of shrug, he lifted his arms and began to remove Nagini.

" _We're here_ ," he hissed quietly to her. " _The peacocks are yours to terrorize._ "

" _Yesssssss_ ," she hissed as she gracefully fell from his shoulders and onto the grass. " _This is good. You're a good human, Voldemort. I missed you._ "

" _I missed you, too_ ," he somehow said. It came out without thinking, and then he froze, to prevent himself from startling over the fact that he had said it. Nagini swung her head towards him – clearly she had noticed what he had said, when he had never said it before. But she said nothing – merely flicked her tongue through the air, before darting off into the brush. The sound of screaming birds and frantically flapping wings soon followed.

Well, at least one of them was enjoying themselves.

"Edward," he said, watching as one of the snow-white birds attempted to fly up and instead tripped over itself and its clipped wings. "Come, walk with me. There are plans to discuss."

After all, he could not allow his most useful servant to remain so physically weakened. The issue needed to be addressed.

  


Barty cocked his head to the side when he heard Voldemort and his familiar talk to each other in Parseltongue. It was the first time he'd heard his master's new body, new mouth, form this special language and smiled fondly. He wondered what they had said that had prompted both of them to stare at each other like that but knew better than to ask.

"Certainly, master," Barty replied and allowed himself to catch up to Lord Voldemort so that he was but a half-step behind him. "Do you want me to infiltrate the ministry? I learned much from Alastor Moody while I questioned him. I think I could pass off as an Auror and I remember enough from before to also be able to fill an office function somewhere if you so desire."

  


Voldemort glanced at Barty with narrowed eyes as the boy spoke of infiltration and action. Was he that ready to go back out and place himself into danger? Never mind. It would not be happening. Idly, he waved his wand to allow a privacy bubble to form around the two of them.

"Perhaps that is a function you shall fill in the future," he said. It never hurt to leave options open, after all. "However, for the moment, you are in no fit physical state to do so. We will return you to health insofar as it is possible before placing you back on active duty. In the meantime, you will reside at another safehouse with me and, when not recuperating, will assist me in returning my affairs to order after they were so abruptly halted. I will also need to catch up on the current state of the world and its affairs – I suppose so too do you," he stated, giving Barty a sharp look. "The reaction of the Ministry to whatever tale Potter will undoubtedly spin will be necessary knowledge before I finalize my course of action. Until I have acquired a full knowledge of it, I and my servants will be lying low and inactive. I would rather like to encourage them to fail to take me seriously."

  


"Oh, you're right, of course. I should get back to perfect health first," Barty admitted sheepishly. He'd only half expected his master to think of such trivial matters and felt a wave of warmth rush over him.

While they walked, his fingers drummed idly on his thighs as he listened to his master's plan for the foreseeable future. They were to remain together – his fingers dug into the flesh of his thigh on the side turned away from Lord Voldemort.

"I read the Prophet while I was in Hogwarts and used some of the weekends to gain intel from the denizens of Hogsmeade." Barty crossed his arms to stop the incessant movements of his fingers and drummed on his upper arms with them instead.

"I'd be honored to assist you in bringing your affairs back in order. As for lying low... the only people who've actually seen my face are Potter, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape and my old house elf. No one in the ministry will believe a lick they say. Dumbledore has been lamenting about his waning star in the ministry all year anyway. Pah." Here, his fingers tightened on his muscles and dug in."How it irked me to play a friend to him all these months. What an insufferable, holier-than-thou bastard of a man!"

  


Of course the boy hadn't thought for his own health. Voldemort suppressed a look of irritation, knowing it would be taken the wrong way.

"Ah yes," he murmured as Barty began to decry Albus Dumbledore. "Poor, sad Albus. How _terrible_ that he should find himself losing the adoration of the sheep." He made sure to inject as much sarcasm as possible into his tone. "The man has always been power-hungry without admitting to it. He gives a good act, I will give him only that if I am to give him anything – but I would rather give him nothing. More take, if you would."

The image of a burning wardrobe flickered across Voldemort's mind. He shoved it away, locking it back into the box of memories he did not like to think on.

"I wish not to speak of that man at length. Relate now to me the basics you have learned from the Prophet," Voldemort said. "Or are they in your book of notes?"

  


"Aah, no, they're not. Well, some important articles are summarised but there's no concise timeline of events or anything. I'll make a list for you; that'll be less confusing than what I could cobble together now."

Barty began planning in the back of his mind immediately and started making a mental checklist. Order back copies of the Prophet, skim and summarise. Get a list of ministry personnel – easy to do with the funds his master was going to get from Malfoy.

"I'm sure no one will believe news of your return either. Potter is the only one who knows, apart from the Death Eaters, and they won't blap if they know what's good for them."

Traitors all. Returned to their cushy lives in their cushy mansions with their tails tucked between their legs the moment the tide had turned. Pathetic.

"They won't dare defy you. If they do, I'll cut them into pieces and send them to the others." His voice was cold when he said it. All he needed was one little excuse and he'd have their heads.

  


A strange spurt of emotion shot through Voldemort's chest at the declaration. Once upon a time, Nagini had with the same hiss pledged to bite as many 'red humans' as possible, if only Voldemort asked, and told him she would remain with him forever. Such a thing had never been said to him by a human... but it did not mean the same, he intently told himself, as it had for Nagini. Snakes were simpler than humans – they knew what they were about. Humans were merely complex at the best of times. And yet...

"You know what, Edward?" Voldemort murmured. "I believe I would quite like that, should things come to that. It shall be so."

Nothing wrong with good old fear as a motivator.

"Then we shall await our new Prophet subscription with pleasure, shall we not?" the Dark Lord went on. "I cannot wait to find out the words they use to slander Potter. Do you think they will include Dumbledore as well? What fun."

There was a hesitant pull on his connection to the Dark Marks. Voldemort mentally traced it until he had located the source – Lucius. "It seems Lucius thinks he has finished his tasks," Voldemort said for Barty's benefit. "Come. There is still much to do today."

He turned on his heel and began to make his way back to the Manor. As he walked, he looked around, red eyes picking out the location where the peacocks were most upset. " _Nagini_ ," he hissed, projecting his voice in that direction. " _I am about to leave. Come with me and let the peacocks alone._ "

A scaled head, hood half-raised, popped up above the ornamental flower bushes. " _Will we come back later? I want to eat one._ "

" _No you don't? You hate fur and feathers._ "

" _Well, I forgot how much I hate it. Now I have to try it again._ "

" _You're impossible. Get over here, I want you with me._ "

" _You're so bossy_ ," she hissed. Her head ducked back down into the foliage. " _Coming~_ " she hissed. Voldemort waited for her, and placed her back on his shoulders before proceeding to the door.

  


While Barty still couldn't understand what they were saying, it felt like he was witnessing Lord Voldemort at his most human when he was talking to his snake.

Just before they entered the manor, while holding the door for his master, Barty swallowed down his nervousness and craned his neck to look Lord Voldemort in the eye.

"I'm glad I get to stay with you while you prepare for the future, master," he said earnestly and had to look away because his nerves were showing. He gripped the door hard. "You won't regret keeping me nearby. You'll want for nothing."

  


Barty held the door open for him. Voldemort had not commanded so, but he was secretly relieved, for Nagini was again heavy on his shoulders.

The confession was a bit of a shock.

No, Voldemort distantly corrected himself. A lot of shock. But no – of course Barty didn't understand what he had said. Voldemort forced himself to ignore all unintended implications, and gave only an aloof nod of acknowledgement, for while it wasn't quite expected, it would not do to leave such devotion alone, to potentially wither. Better to feed it somehow.

Lucius was in the same study, looking utterly wretched. Voldemort held out a hand expectantly, and watched with hidden glee as a heavy mokeskin bag dropped into his palm.

"Your service is most appreciated, Lucius," he said. "Are the rooms prepared?"

"Yes, my Lord," said Lucius dully.

"You will show me to mine, and Edward to his. Edward, I expect you to make yourself presentable for an excursion to Diagon Alley within the hour."

  


Barty's eyebrows rose up. To Diagon Alley! How long it had been since he'd visited the Alleys… Well, he'd certainly be able to get the back copies of the Prophet there.

"Yes, my Lord, I'll be ready," he promised with a quick bow.

He followed Lucius and his master until a wing meant for guests and waited until Lucius had shown Lord Voldemort to his suite before being shown his own opulent lodgings.

"Thank you, Lord Malfoy," he replied in the darker voice he'd chosen for this persona.

"How may I call you?" Lucius asked. "We don't know each other, so using your first name feels too familiar for me."

"Ah, how impolite of me, Lord Malfoy," Barty replied jovially. "I'm Edward Smith, pleased to make your acquaintance."

The two shook hands and Barty wasn't surprised to see Lucius catalogue his features. The man was about to open his mouth but Barty was faster.

"Thank you for your hospitality. As you know, our Lord awaits me, so I must be quick to settle my business. Good day to you, sir."

With that, he closed the door to his room and revelled in the feeling of being alone and free and safe behind their own lines.

Now how to go about making himself look a bit more presentable. He really should invest in a starter wardrobe while out and about. With a little luck, the galleons he had left could be stretched enough to purchase a few robes.

  


Voldemort took the hour to examine his face. He had not, apparently, worked up a sweat. His skin – scales – were not even oily. He wondered whether that was still a possibility for him... perhaps he ought to cast some basic diagnostics, just to attempt to determine what the differences were. It would not do to be suddenly ambushed by a health issue.

Instead, he spent the time fixing his glamour back into place, until his illusory hair could almost be felt when he trailed a hand through it. Then he altered his robes into a well-made, fully apportioned set of classic black robes, complete with an overcoat and cloak, and transfigured a stray handkerchief into a cravat. It was beyond nice to look in the mirror once more and see a presentable body. He touched his false hair, and wondered about what might be needed to return himself to human.

He supposed he'd first work whether or not there was no health risk to remaining, and then take things as they came.

He strode out of his suite ten minutes before the hour and began to seek out Barty.

  


Barty was relieved to find that the empty wardrobe had a mirror attached to the inside of a door. He used Moody's wand to transfigure his clothes once more because if he was to be in polite society at his master's side, he had to look the part.

His simple black trousers appeared to become dove grey and his boots hugged his feet a little tighter so he wouldn't drag them as much.

He took off Moody's big clunky coat and shrunk it before he put it in his trouser pockets. Late June was way too warm for so many layers and he was glad to be rid of them.

With some effort and a lot of stubbornness, he managed to transfigure his robes into a blue modern cut that almost passed for inspection. Some of the seams looked blurry and unreal but he hoped nobody would look at him with that much scrutiny.

When he left his room, his master was just coming down the corridor and Barty hurried over to him. He bowed low in greeting and took in his master's glamoured appearance in an appraising once-over.

"You're so good at glamours," he gushed, itching to touch the seams and feel whether they _felt_ as real as they looked. "It looks tailored to you, master. So do we take the Floo? There's so much to do! I want to get back copies of the Prophet and some not-rubbish history books of the last years. Other than that, I'm all yours to send on errands as you please!"

Diagon Alley! How long had he not been there! Ages! Over a decade! He felt like a little boy again.

  


Voldemort allowed himself a moment to silently preen over Barty's (entirely justified) praise of his abilities. With a small flick of his wand, he modified his servant's own glamour to make the seams a bit less blurry.

"The back copies may wait until each of us has a wardrobe that may be genuinely worn about the alley," Voldemort said firmly. The boy's enthusiasm was potentially dangerous if he got too exuberant. "I would not wish to rely on glamours for the whole trip, as they are fallible."

Was Barty's body well enough to floo? Apparition would be just as stressful, though... Voldemort considered this as he led his servant to the fireplace in the Malfoy atrium.

"We shall enter through the Leaky Cauldron," he informed the boy, as he threw his own handful of floo powder onto the fire and stepped in.

  


Barty stayed behind a second or ten, breathing through the ecstasy of feeling his master's magic wash over him once again, until he followed with a stoic expression affixed onto his face.

The Leaky Cauldron was just as untidy and loud as Barty remembered it but its business was different from that of, say, the Great Hall and corridors of Hogwarts.

Hogwarts was a controlled mess with students swarming to the same places all the time. This... this was _chaos_. He instinctively sought out the imposing figure his master struck and kept close to Lord Voldemort's side.

"Haven't been here in ages," he said weakly and refused to flinch when a couple Aurors in their long leather coats walked past them. "Glad I'm not alone. Madam Malkin's then?"

He'd never really been to other clothing stores. Had he ever even owned more than two or three sets of robes apart from his Hogwarts uniform and later his Death Eater robes?

  


Voldemort paused a few steps out of the fireplace. Ostensibly, it was to wait for Barty to arrive. More secretly, he paused to allow himself time to work through his own reactions to the sudden mass of humanity around him.

 _Do not panic_ , he told himself firmly. _Breathe._

Eventually the overwhelming levels of noise died down to manageable. They had not actually quieted – Voldemort had merely forced his body to become used to them again. His eyes caught movement everywhere he looked, and he had to focus hard not to allow his wand arm to twitch, nor to allow himself to look wildly every direction, searching for potential threats.

Barty's appearance at his side, his weak statement, was a welcome relief. Voldemort immediately shifted, using his servant's proximity as a grounding force, and regained the last of his footing. Two Aurors swept by, ignoring him and Barty, and Voldemort had to hold back first an instinctive sneer, and then a cackle, as they ignored him completely. To think! Here he stood, Lord Voldemort, and two Aurors stride right by him and don't even look twice!

He fixed their faces in his mind. One day, maybe, if they lived through his ascent to ruler of wizarding Britain, he would find them and let them know how much they had amused him.

"Madam Malkin's?" Voldemort repeated with surprise as he tapped out the brick pattern for the Alleys. "Goodness, no, she caters mostly to the average witch or wizard, and even that tends to be merely a supplement to her exclusive contract with Hogwarts for student robes and for house loyalty merchandise for adults. I have a much different place in mind..." He trailed off as the Alley revealed itself before him, and swept down it without allowing himself to hesitate.

After all, if any of his more Pureblooded servants could tolerate this particular tailor, it would be Barty. Voldemort rather hoped she was still in business.

  


Barty automatically fell into place a half step behind his master. Outside of the dingy lighting of the Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley was as beautiful and inviting as he remembered it to be.

The afternoon sun was warm but not too hot and everything seemed peaceful and happy. What a relief.

He quite felt like the wide-eyed young boy clinging to his mother's skirts all those endless years ago again. Had that been _this_ lifetime? He felt slightly nauseous. It seemed an eternity away, as if it had happened to another boy.

"I am pretty average though," he finally replied to his master. "I don't think the remains of my teacher's salary would be quite enough for decadent robes such as would be available in a shop that is good enough for the likes of you. We could rendezvous later once I'm done at Madam Malkin's, my Lord."

  


Average? _Average?_ It never ceased to amaze Lord Voldemort how most humans consistently misjudged their own abilities. The lesser thought themselves greater, the greater, lesser. It was a nightmare for somebody who was well aware of his own talents.

"Keep the remains of your salary, Edward," he said quietly as he strode up Diagon, looking for the turn onto Rittic. Upon locating it, he shifted his angle, forcing a young couple to jump out of his way. "There is more than enough money within ten thousand galleons to finance five or six outfits for you, and the shop I have in mind covers all manner of decadences, from the generic to the Lordly. She's rather good at that. If it turns out she is not still in business, then we will discuss other options."

What luck – she was not merely still in business, but she had expanded! Two storefronts now bore the signage of _Mme Maier_ rather than just one, and Voldemort was glad to open one of those doors. He wondered idly if she would recognise him at all.

  


"I wouldn't want to impose, my Lord," Barty merely mumbled in response and sidestepped around the young couple his master had misplaced.

The man was glaring something fierce before thinking better of it and walking away. Barty sent a wandless stinging hex at his retreating rump and quickly entered the shop after his master. He'd been too late to open the door for him because of this distraction! He told himself to get a grip and shook his head.

Then, he shook it again when confronted with the lavish yet tasteful decor of Mme Maier's shop.

And he was to have five or six whole outfits from this place! While he was looking all around himself, he almost bumped into his master and saved himself from an embarrassment with an aborted rotational movement that had him stop at Lord Voldemort's side.

And not a moment too soon, for he could hear someone from further back tell them she'd be right there.

  


Voldemort had missed Rittic. It was certainly one of the places he would have to catch himself up on – and the Prophet wouldn't help him in that particular endeavor.

"By the way, Edward," he murmured to Barty as he sensed more movement from the back. "Do not panic unduly." And he said no more, as Rosalie Maier had emerged from the back. She had dyed her hair red since the last time Voldemort had seen her, and her always unusual outfit was a tad more embellished than Voldemort remembered, but she was otherwise unchanged. He took in the sight with an aloof gaze as she maneuvered around a couple of manikins and finally got a full glimpse of him, and it gratified him to see the shock and then recognition in her eyes.

"Damn," she finally said, after a short pause. "I thought you were dead! The old bore's going to have kittens about this, isn’t he?"

"I should hope he's already had them," Voldemort said smoothly. He allowed the glamour to drop from his eyes alone, showing how deeply red they were. "Hello, Rosalie. I do hope you have the time for an unannounced walk-in."

"For you. You know you're special," she told him. Then she leaned over and peered at Barty. "Son, or lover?"

"Neither," Voldemort hissed flatly. "Servant. You may call him Edward. He will require seven outfits of various formalities, as pureblood-modern as you can."

She nodded. "And you?"

"My usual."

"Well, who wants to go first, then?"

Voldemort reached over and steered Barty forwards. "Edward shall go first, as I am paying for both."

  


"Why would I – " he whispered back but interrupted himself to stand straight at his master's side when the lady came bustling over.

She was a sight to behold and Barty felt like he missed about half a conversation as Lord Voldemort and the shopkeeper _bantered_ back and forth.

Upon her question directed at him, Barty just about choked on his spit and it took all his willpower not to flush bright red. Son, or lover. Both? Neither? He'd take what he'd get, in any case, and servant was good enough for now.

Even though being pushed forward meant a short contact, he was reluctant to follow his master's command for once. The lady was sharp as a needle and was already eyeing him with thinly-veiled curiosity. To speak to his master like she did, there had to be more to her than met the eye.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance Madam Maier," he greeted her formally and extended his hand.

  


Rosalie shook Barty's hand only perfunctorily, and quickly hustled him into the back. Voldemort watched with some amusement, and then listened with even more amusement as Barty occasionally let out a few high pitched _eeps_. Finally, his servant was returned to him, wearing a much more modern and _real_ set of robes appropriate to a personal assistant to somebody rich.

Rosalie certainly hadn't lost her touch. Nor her sass, based on the way she was looking at Voldemort skeptically.

"You should take better care of your things," she said, as she escorted the Dark Lord to the back.

"It has been a busy and hectic year," he replied mildly.

She snorted. "I'm sure. Now, are your measurements still the same, or is that some kind of dark ritual body?"

"Ah. Well, you see..."

Eventually, they emerged once more, Voldemort in possession of much finer robes in the more modern style, and with his glamours re-applied. He paid Rosalie, and explicitly gave her permission for casual gossip, before exiting a good few galleons lighter.

"Very well," he hummed. "I require books, and Prophet back-copies. Back to Diagon, I believe."

  


Barty was still reeling from the experience with Madam Maier and gathered his scattered dignity to his chest when they exited.

"She called me one of your things," he repeated, confused. "Am I in such a bad shape?"

He looked down at himself, considering what he knew was hidden under those robes. He hadn't had much time to care for his body, the last year. Or the years before that.

"I'm... very much looking forward to being myself once more, my Lord," he said in a low voice as they were walking back to Diagon Alley. "At least when it's just you and me," he added even more quietly.

The rich fabric felt weird against his chest and his fingers itched to comb through his hair. It had been quite overwhelming to have Madam Maier _touch him so much_.

  


Voldemort listened idly to Barty's nervous chatter as he led the way back to Diagon. His servant was at least only speaking of himself, though – not questioning Rosalie, or Voldemort's familiarity with her. He had always known there was a reason he liked Barty.

"You are not in the best of health, no," he murmured as they passed Flourish and Blotts, heading instead to a more specialty bookstore, Renkins, that Voldemort preferred. He was both pleased to see it still there, and mildly discomfited by further reminders of how little the wizarding world of Britain enjoyed change.

Well, they would not stay still for long. He would drag them kicking and screaming into it if he had to.

"When time and safety permits, I will obtain a healer for you. For now..." He glanced around the cramped bookstore and withdrew a handful of galleons. "Go about the store, find some of those history books you spoke of. I expect a fair haul of relevant information."

  


Barty bowed slightly as he accepted the money. At least this would leave him with enough funds to procure the odd token of gratitude or two.

The bookshop, like most wizarding shops, didn't much follow reason or rhyme so he had to resort to the old-fashioned way: most of his schooling years spent in the library had honed his eyes and he quickly found what he was looking for.

" _Politics at the Turn of the Century_ ", " _A Millennium's Overview and a Glimpse in the Future_ " (not the divination kind, thank you very much) went into a charmed shopping bag flying next to him. They were soon joined by another half dozen books on history and politics until Barty was satisfied for the time being.

Next, he led his master over to the headquarters of the Prophet and drew in a deep breath.

"You'd better wait here, my Lord. It's chaos in there and Skeeter can smell a story three miles against the wind," he whispered with a chagrined expression. "I had to endure her antics during the tournament and you'd better not meet her. She's very, very annoying and she can hold a grudge. Can't have you curse her in broad daylight."

Barty grinned but daylight was actually already waning and he could feel his stomach protest. Food afterwards! And they'd need groceries, too.

It took him all of twenty minutes to have all the back copies of the last thirteen years shrunk and packed once he'd shown he was ready to pay and he rejoined his master happily.

"We should have some early dinner before we go on, mas– my Lord. Is there a place you have in mind?"

  


Voldemort flipped briefly through the books when Barty presented them to him, and pronounced them acceptable. Then, while Barty ducked into the Prophet's offices to retrieve their back copies, Voldemort occupied himself with some wandless magic practice. This mostly consisted of subtle hexes cast on irritating looking passersby who wouldn't notice until later that they had been hexed – the slight tearing of clothing seams, the loosening of earrings, an unnoticeable "papercut" on a finger that would only make itself known some time later.

He did trip one particularly obnoxious sounding man, who immediately blamed a nearby lady on a date with a young man. The obnoxious man was promptly hexed bald for his troubles, and Voldemort snickered to himself.

Movement by his side had him looking over to behold Barty, carrying a stack of shrunken newspapers. Voldemort nodded at him, and then tilted his head at the suggestion of dinner. 

"Food would not be amiss," he finally decided. "Come."

It wouldn't do to visit Rittic only once, after all. He did hope that the Celtic Knot had, like every shop thus far, also stood the test of time.


	4. Where We Left Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we've passed into the part of the story where we were hitting stride with the writing, pacing, and characterisation.
> 
> Also, I would like to state for the record that the degree to which this chapter is entirely one long homoerotic subtextual metaphor is something we did not notice until rereading it for publication. It has not been altered from the original beyond an automated spellcheck and some punctuation. You're welcome. - Kit

Barty wouldn't admit it, but he was terribly relieved at the prospect of getting some food into his belly. He'd quite gotten used to large quantities of food during his stay in Hogwarts and his body would require more than it had before the Polyjuice business to get in shape. He'd be of no use to his master if he was weak.

Back in Rittic Alley, Lord Voldemort stopped them before a restaurant proclaiming itself as the Celtic Knot. He held the door open and followed his master towards a middle-aged man with a kind face who led them over to a table towards the back.

The menu was varied but not too varied and Barty decided on some buttered bread as a starter and a big slab of meat with a side of potatoes and veggies as his main course. And since Polyjuice Potion wasn't allowed to be mixed with alcohol lest one should have unspeakable adverse effects, he decided to indulge a little and ordered a glass of wine.

Sitting there, at a table with his master after all these years, he finally felt like he could relax a little and allowed himself a bright smile.

"I haven't been this happy in years, my Lord. To you!" He toasted quietly once his glass had arrived.

  


Voldemort was pleased to see that the menu, at least, had changed somewhat to reflect the changed years. He allowed himself the indulgence of duck confit, and even felt pleased enough at how the day had gone to copy his servant’s example, obtaining a glass of wine for himself.

Barty's toast was surprising only for a moment. Voldemort quickly rallied, and allowed a faint smile to form on his lips when his facial muscles expressed the urge to him. "I quite agree," he said smoothly, and lifted up his own glass to clink it against Barty's. "To me, indeed."

Barty kept up a low, excited babble as they ate. Voldemort merely kept one ear on his chatter, only occasionally interjecting when the boy started to speak too freely even for the privacy charm muffling their table. For the most part, though, he was content to remain quiet and allow his servant's voice to wash over him.

It had been a long fourteen or thirteen years. Long years promised to continue to happen to him – Voldemort knew well that nothing came for free. He would have to work hard to finish claiming wizarding Britain as his own. But for this moment, he did not have to think of such things, and he allowed himself to feel calm and peaceful.

It was perhaps this calm peace which led him to suggest the mad whim that popped into his mind as he settled the bill.

"Have you ever had ice cream, Edward?"

  


Flushed from a good meal and thoroughly content with the state of his little world for the moment, Barty took a moment to fully register what his master had asked. When he did, a shadow passed over his mind and he heard a man's voice chastise him and felt the sting as an open palm collided with his cheek.

_"Indulgent things like sweets will rot your teeth and your brain, son,"_ a distant memory chastised him. _"No son of mine will grow up to be an idiot. Oh, do stop crying like a little girl, will you, or I'll show you what a real slap is!"_

The cobwebs were harder to shake off this time, and he was sure he heard his mother crying for his acquittal in the distance.

Barty swallowed audibly and forced a smile on his face.

"I haven't, my Lord, but... I'd really like to try, I think."

While they were walking towards Fortescue's, Barty remembered that he wanted to buy a little something for his master and excused himself with the promise to come find him at the ice cream shop.

He quickly ducked into a specialty store catering to the exclusive palate and bought something with the remains of his salary.

Since there was a normal food store right next door, he hopped into that one too and was relieved to find that they had pre-packaged food supplies lasting for X amount of weeks in shrunken packages. He got one that was supposed to last for four weeks plus the accompanying magical cookbook and jogged towards Fortescue's so as to not keep his master waiting for too long.

  


Voldemort had never had ice cream before. He was not entirely certain how it was supposed to work. But it was something like a restaurant, was it not? How difficult could it be?

Extremely difficult, he found, as he was presented with something like thirty or more options simply for flavor. That did not account for the options for how he could order his ice cream to be prepared, none of which were familiar to Voldemort. He stared at the posted menu, and felt his mind going blank. He had no idea how to proceed.

He had made no progress by the time Barty returned from whatever errand he had set for himself. "Whatever was that about, Edward?" he asked, as a way to distract himself.

  


"Ooh, I figured we'd need food so I got a ready-to-go package for about four weeks," Barty explained. "There's instructions for cooking charms and the like too so we don't have to have sandwiches every day."

He'd sat down opposite his master and leaned over the table to read the menu upside down instead of getting his own.

"That's way more flavours than I anticipated!"

Barty put on his thinking face and decided that since he liked chocolate bars and vanilla pudding well enough, those flavours should be a good first foray into ice cream.

When the server came to take their order, he asked for a chocolate milkshake and two scoops of vanilla. They could always come back and try out some of the more daring concoctions like treacle tart or pumpkin spice.

  


... Food. Of course. He needed to eat, as an embodied being... though Voldemort had admittedly been planning in the back of his mind to focus on takeout, in order to make everything simpler. The house he had in mind had options near enough by that it would preclude the hassle of cooking. But perhaps cooking would give Barty somewhere to put all his excess energy. He nodded shortly to express his approval.

"Caramel," he finally decided when the server looked at him. "Merely a bowl, if you please." And he handed the menu back.

What did ice cream taste like? Beyond coldness and sugar, obviously... he presumed caramel ice cream would taste like caramel candy, or caramel sauce, but he had rarely had the opportunity to try either of those items, either.

It arrived then, before he could finish fully preparing himself. He took a hesitant spoonful and examined it before placing it in his mouth, expecting merely a sweet – but nothing could have prepared Voldemort for the sudden explosion of flavor across his tongue.

He came back to himself after a few seconds of blank, blissful enjoyment, and eagerly swallowed and took up another. Why had he not tried this years ago?!

  


Barty eagerly waited for his ice cream but was immediately daunted by the towering height of his milkshake. That had to be more than any grown man or woman could consume in one sitting, didn't it?

He surreptitiously looked up to see how his master was faring with the foreign food and was just in time to see him put the first spoonful into his mouth. To Barty's surprise, he could see his master's eyes widen in pleasant surprise at the flavour and his milkshake was forgotten in the face of the utter glee softening Lord Voldemort's features.

He watched his master spoon some more ice cream into his mouth, almost greedily, and gently shook his head to snap back. Still kinda staring, he rested his face on his palm, stuck the straw into his mouth and slurped his chocolate milkshake with what was probably the world's sappiest smile.

They were both here. Really here! Having _ice cream_ of all things and these milkshake things were _delicious_.

  


Voldemort managed to force himself to slow down after about five more scoops. He felt uncomfortably like a young child again, looking around warily for onlookers after he had stolen food out of the orphanage pantry in the dead of night rather than risk even more hunger. Barty had probably seen his lack of self-control. Voldemort did not like that.

But his servant did not appear to be judging him. Rather, Barty's face was soft, a smile gracing it. Voldemort blinked at him in confusion. Why was he smiling so?

A strange warmth threatened to pass through Voldemort's chest and creep up his face. He forced it down, wondering at the sudden appearance. Instead, he took another scoop of his own ice cream, and cast about for any potential topic of conversation.

"You mentioned you had never had ice cream before," he said. "What do you think?"

  


"Hm? Oh, yeah." Barty also put some of the actual ice cream in his mouth and grinned broadly when he tasted it. "No, wow, that's delicious. No wonder you liked it so much, too!"

He spooned some more vanilla into his mouth. "You know, my father – he used to say that sweets make boys soft and that's why I couldn't have any. I wanted to make him proud back then so I figured I wouldn't have any in Hogwarts either. Fat load of good that did me." He mumbled the last bit and stared angrily into his ice cream bowl before shrugging.

"Nothing to do for it! Would you like to try some milkshake, ma-my Lord? It's different from ice cream."

He set about emptying his bowl and pushed the milkshake slightly towards his master. While he wasn't sure how Lord Voldemort felt about using the same straw, this wasn't an opportunity to be wasted.

  


Voldemort forced himself not to react to Barty's assessment of his own emotions. Of course, his servant had seen. But Barty still remained free enough of judgement. Voldemort instead occupied himself with regarding the milkshake offered to him – the account of Barty's odious father did not seem worth bothering with.

He was curious, he supposed. Barty's expression while drinking it had been blissful. And of course, Lord Voldemort deserved any pleasant experience that he could get his hands on. It would behoove him to ensure he could determine whether or not he would desire any milkshakes in the future.

It was indeed quite good. Voldemort found himself polishing it off, and glanced contemplatively at his remaining caramel ice cream. With a swift motion, he had another scoop in his spoon.

"Would you like to try this?" he asked, holding out the utensil. "The flavor is quite interesting if you enjoy caramel. Or have you never had caramel, either?"

  


It was good that Barty had finished his ice cream in the meantime because he was reasonably sure that he would have choked on it.

He couldn't even find it within himself to be mad at his master for having _stolen_ about half his milkshake. That neutral expression with which Lord Voldemort held out the spoon for him, as if there was nothing to it at all, had Barty's heart race.

"There was caramel pudding at Hogwarts sometimes the past year," he mumbled and leaned forward to taste the ice cream offered to him. It was, indeed, delicious, and he told his master as much. "Thank you for sharing, my Lord."

He excused himself for a short bathroom break and spent most of that time staring at his reflection in the mirror. Finally, he threw some cold water onto his face, ran his fingers through his hair and emerged once again. On his way back, he surreptitiously paid for their snacks with his own money and left a tip.

"Cheers, mate," the server said with a wink. "And good luck for the rest of your date. You got yourself a good one."

"Haha," Barty croaked in response. If the server knew what he'd just said..!

He wanted to immediately retreat back into the bathroom but forced himself, painfully blushing face and all, to return back to the table.

"I paid already," he pressed out. "Ice cream's on me."

  


"Oh?" Voldemort said. So Barty had paid the bill, had he? "That was not necessary," he said, "but thank you."

... Since when did Lord Voldemort thank people?

Clearly the sugar and the wine were getting to him. Voldemort stood, flipping his cloak over his shoulder. It was dark outside. He disliked the idea of trying to apparate to the vicinity of an old safehouse in the dark. "Come," he told Barty. "We'll return to our guest rooms for tonight." With quick steps, he began to march back to the Leaky Cauldron, where he was careful to muffle their fireplace before giving out their destination.

"Malfoy Manor," he proclaimed, and hopped in. Brushing soot off his shoulders on the other end, Voldemort allowed his glamour to melt away. His skin – no, his scales? – itched briefly in the aftermath, and then subsided.

  


Barty followed his master to Malfoy Manor, filled with a warm glow residing somewhere behind his solar plexus upon being thanked. It even managed to let him forget the mortification he'd felt just minutes earlier.

Once back, he excused himself to his room and went about putting his new clothing into his wardrobe. It felt good to have a selection to choose from, and he let his fingers trail over the fine fabric of a particularly nice black robe made of acromantula silk. For the very special occasions, Madam Maier had said.

He also enlarged Moody's old clothes again and rifled through the pockets of the coat he'd been wearing. There were two more half-filled notebooks, one crumpled up essay done by the Potter boy, various other bibs and bobs and then – Barty held his breath and half-remembered putting it absent-mindedly in his pocket while plotting his escape.

Moody's eye... Now if that wasn't a good second birthday present for his master! He held the eye up in front of his own eye in glee and looked around a bit. Once his penetrating gaze washed over his master's quarters by accident, he blushed and put it down. No, that would be a terrible idea, to spy on him; even if accidentally.

Instead, he put the eye on his bed and took care of some of the food he'd bought. As long as the month-long packet was thus shrunken, it was conserved and he expected his master's safehouse to have a magical ice box.

He got out the delicacies he'd bought then and conjured a wooden board on which he arranged the selection of cheeses he'd bought, and the beautiful, plump grapes, too. They were a dark red, almost purple, and shining so exquisitely he had to try one. They were, indeed, delicious, and he put a stasis charm on the whole thing.

Next, he went into the small, attached bathroom and let his glamours fall. A shaving charm took care of the stubble threatening to take over and a long unused haircutting charm changed the unruly mop on top of his head into something presentable. If he were to serve his master adequately, he had to look the part too.

Barty allowed himself to rest on the exquisite bed for half an hour then as it was still rather early. It was nice, having time. After, he let the cutting board float next to him, grabbed the bottle of expensive wine he'd gotten as well, and went to knock at his master's door with three short, polite raps.

  


Lord Voldemort placed the packages of new robes delicately onto the guest bed, and brought the shrunken books over to the desk. Upon unshrinking them, he was immediately distracted by the titles, and began to pick through them, ordering them by publication date. Which order in which to read, he considered, most recent first, or oldest first?

He settled for the most recent. Barty had also picked up a few other works from this particular author, and he set all those aside, to be read together so that he might keep in mind possible authorial biases and compare these books to the remainder. Soon, he found himself seated and absorbed. Nagini emerged from the walk-in wardrobe, where she had been napping while he was out (or so she informed him), and laid her head on his leg. Voldemort idly scratched her scales as he turned the pages.

In the middle of chapter five, there were three knocks at his door. He blinked – carefully, he folded the book closed after noting his page. "Who goes there?" he said.

  


Barty opened the door after being called on and slipped inside after his wooden tray had floated in.

"It's just me, master," he greeted with a lopsided smile. "I hope it wasn't too forward of me to assume but... since you were basically reborn yesterday, I figured it might as well be a second birthday to celebrate? So I got you some delicacies to celebrate getting your sense of taste back."

With a hand movement not unlike the ones his master used, for that's who he'd learned it from, Barty let the tray float over towards Lord Voldemort.

Another spell, but with a wand this time, had a little table appear next to his master's armchair and both tray and wine bottle landed with the softest thud. Finally, with the conjuring of a round-bodied wine glass, his offering was almost complete.

"There's a stasis charm on everything if you don't want it now. And one last thing I managed to save for you is this." Barty came within an arm's length of his master's chair, knelt down, and offered the magical eye on his palm with a big grin. "Happy second birthday!"

  


Voldemort looked down at the spread before him. Expensive cheeses, full grapes, and an absolutely divine-looking bottle of red wine... He reached out to pluck it up and examine the label. Italian, hm? And a Merlot... he supposed that would go very well with the cheeses Barty had selected.

The eye on the center of his servant's palm was unexpected. He reached out and carefully picked it up with a swell of wandless magic, so that he did not need to place it against his skin – his scales, he corrected himself. He would really need to get used to that or else commit to changing it. He flicked his fingers to turn it, and saw that it really did seem to be Alastor Moody's magical eye.

"Very good," he murmured. "I am quite certain it will take him years to create a replacement, if indeed he even manages to do so before he expires." With a smirk, he placed it on the desk, in a little crevice that ought to have been meant for a mug. "Well done, Barty."

He did not think too deeply about the birthday wishes. He had never had them before – he did not know what to do with them. He had never really had them before, and starting now felt... odd.

"I have never truly been one for birthdays," he said, and popped the cork from the bottle of wine. "But let us call this a resurrection celebration, instead, hmm?"

  


Barty felt something desperate deep inside of him relax at the praise and hunched in on himself a little.

"If you hold it very close to your actual eye, the magic recognises your intent and you'll be able to use it." He frowned. "It is very disconcerting at first, though, much like using legilimency on a willing subject. All those images flashing before your eyes, seeing a thousand layers at once, seeing the back of your own head... It's best left for the morning, if you want to use it at all."

He looked back at the door and sighed softly.

"It's still too early for bed, master. Can I... that is, would you mind my company while I study the back editions of the Prophet? I swear I won't be a nuisance."

  


"I do think I will give it a clean before using it," Voldemort said dryly. The wine poured well – he swirled his glass around and examined the patterns made by the legs. Very strong, then.

Did he want Barty here? He did not know. Perhaps he did.

"If you wish to stay, you may," he said. "However, there is only the one chair."

  


"I'd prefer to stay down here, anyway," Barty admitted quietly and conjured a big cushion with an intricate pattern.

He sat down on it, cross-legged, and got one of the shrunken stacks of the Prophet and a notebook out. The proximity to another, his _master_ of all people, calmed something primal inside him. If he'd reach out, he'd be able to touch him. He didn't dare, not yet, but he _could_.

It was just like the old times. Studying ancient tomes in dead languages about Dark magic at his master's feet and feeling like he was the luckiest boy in the world.

Finally, after reading and taking notes for a while, he gave in to the whim to have the grapes float over towards his master's face. He looked up to see his reaction and allowed a content, lazy smile to settle on his face.

No one would take this away from him, this time.

  


Voldemort took his first sip of the wine as Barty conjured a cushion and sat – on the floor. Ah. That worked, too, and the wine was quite good, and something inside of Voldemort soothed itself at the sight of another human seated at his feet. He had... missed that, indeed.

He fought down the urge to reach across and tangle his fingers into Barty's hair. He had a book to read. Yet, after some time spent working his way further into the pages, his eyes caught peripheral movement. The Dark Lord glanced up to see a bunch of grapes floating in the air, heading his direction. Then he flicked his eyes down towards Barty, the likely culprit, and saw his suspicions were validated.

"Eager, are we?"

  


Barty ducked his head and cast his eyes downward. He felt a blush creeping up his face all the way from his expensive, starched collar.

"I meant that earlier, master," he explained, still not quite daring to look up again, "when I said that I'd missed you, missed _this_ , terribly. Seeing you once more in your old glory reminded me how many years of service I have missed. I wish... I wish it had been me at your side instead of Wormtail this past year, though I understand it had to be me to deceive all of Hogwarts."

He looked up, then, letting his determination show in the hard glint of his eyes. "I intend to make good on all fourteen years I've missed, if only you'll let me."

  


The blushing was almost endearing. It was a particular side-emotion of endearing, that Voldemort did not know how to name. He dealt with this by plucking one of the grapes off and popping it into his mouth.

"This is very good," he said, more to himself than anything else. "Well, Edward? How shall you make good on it, how will you catch up? I am most interested in your answer."

  


"I'd first like to try and get back to where we were before... you know." Barty made a vague hand movement to encompass what basically amounted to thirteen years of misery for both of them.

"Learning from you back then felt like learning from one of the grand masters of old. Merlin, Salazar Slytherin... I bet none of them would have been able to hold a candle to you. To have been chosen so by someone like you was... everything I'd ever dreamed of."

He finally put the Prophet he'd been holding onto to the side and folded his hands in his lap. "But most of all, I'd want to be by your side, master. Feel your power when you cast magic, share in your victory when you triumph over those who'd dare oppose you, and protect and cherish you at all times."

  


And now the warmth, washing over him. Voldemort knew not how to name that, either.

"You shall come with me," he said instead, amused. "Recall? Tomorrow morning we will depart for the safehouse, where we shall mainly reside. I would have your aid with cleaning it and restoring it to a workable state.

"As for your desire to learn, I see no reason why it may not continue. But I will require an assessment of your health first – you understand why this is so?"

The Dark Lord gave in to the urge that had been plaguing him, and finally allowed himself to reach out and place a hand on Barty's head. His fingers dug lightly into the boy's blonde hair, and his thumb pressed lightly against his servant's hairline.

  


"I understand," Barty replied in a shaky voice and felt his eyes flutter shut at the unexpected contact.

He swallowed and sat a little straighter to gently push back into the warmth on top of his head. "I've been eating well today and will continue to eat well. I'll be back to full strength in no time, master."

Emboldened by his master's touch, he had a single grape pluck itself from the bunch and float towards Lord Voldemort.

"Is there anything else you require of me this evening, my Lord Voldemort?" He dared look his master in the eye, grounded by that warm, heavy hand resting on his head, nails softly, ever so softly, digging into his scalp. "You were always very appreciative of getting your feet massaged back then. I can only imagine that with feet so new, they must be incredibly tired from all the walking we did today."

  


"I am pleased to hear that you will continue to eat well," Voldemort said to his servant. He plucked the offered grape from the air and bit down, enjoying the burst of juice between his teeth. With another sip of wine, he looked down at Barty.

He did recall their activities of old. Hah, _activities_. How interesting that he would call it so in his own mind. He contemplated Barty's question, subconsciously flexing his toes as he did so.

His feet _were_ tired...

"I daresay I would like that," he said, and uncrossed his legs so he could plant both of his feet upon the floor.

  


Following that last sentence, Barty could hear his pulse rushing in his ears all of a sudden and he exhaled a shaky breath.

"Thank you, master," he mumbled and gently reached out for his master's left foot. He lifted it up and wiggled around on his cushion until he could rest his master's calf on his thigh.

The skin was soft and warm under his touch, and finally, finally being this close to another person again after all these years quieted his heartbeat once more.

Instead of immediately starting to massage, Barty stroked over the smooth scales covering seemingly every inch of his master's skin. His touch was gentle yet not light enough to tickle as his hands wandered up to about the middle of his master's calf, long fingers busy with exploring and cataloguing.

He'd half expected Lord Voldemort's new snake characteristics to have included a lower body temperature, but the unexpected warmth was most welcome.

Barty bent down and pressed his face, his lips, against the back of his master's foot, basking in the comfort of being thus connected. His nails scratched up his master's leg and started to knead the calf muscle before he forced himself to sit back up and move down with his hands to start massaging Lord Voldemort's foot in earnest with sure, steady caresses and pressure.

  


Voldemort settled back and allowed Barty to maneuver his foot into his lap. He sat too through the short period of time during which his servant did nothing more than stroke his skin, sipping his wine and slowly picking away at the cheese and grapes. The sensation of another's touch against his skin – no, scales – was pleasant in a manner that Voldemort had not expected to find pleasant. He was most gratified when Barty leaned down to kiss his foot. He was even more so gratified when the boy finally began his massage in earnest.

His lungs wanted to react. He bit back the moan that wished to escape him, and instead tried to focus on his snacks and his wine. Eventually, though, even that was little use. He felt tension draining from him that he had not realized was there, and reclined even farther back, closing his eyes and sighing in contentment.

  


For a while, Barty lost himself in the easy rhythm of rubbing and massaging. That is, until his master heaved a heartfelt sigh which prompted him to look up, momentarily worried. What he found, though, put his mind at ease.

Lord Voldemort had his eyes closed and, if Barty wasn't seeing things, the man wore the smallest of content smiles. And _he'd_ put it there. A warm sensation passed over him and made him feel like he'd just stepped out of a nice hot shower.

He doubled down on the massage and dared to press his lips to the ball of his master's foot.

"I was searching for you, you know," he mused in a very quiet voice, not wanting to shatter the moment. "The Lestranges were, too, and they offered refuge to those of us who had nowhere to go. Karkaroff was one of those stranded, and he saw me conferring with them one evening."

He paused here for a while and let his hands wander up to his master's calf once more. Caressing the smooth, warm scales was an intoxicating sensation and Barty found himself wishing he could kneel here forever.

"So few knew that I was yours... To have a traitor, of all people, stumble upon this knowledge is still one of my biggest regrets in life."

Barty kissed his master's toes, then, and started to massage and rotate the digits with firm pressure.

"What I want to say," he continued in the same low voice, "is that I'd have given everything to be the one to have found you, and instead _you_ found _me_. Until your resurrection yesterday, that has truly been the best day of my life, master."

Or maybe it was the day he'd received his Dark Mark? By the gods, had he ever felt such raw power before as in that moment?

Barty felt his ears redden when he realised he'd been babbling again and ducked his head to continue lavishing his master's tired foot with attention.

  


Voldemort listened with a distant ear to Barty's musings. The boy had always been somewhat more talkative than most of his servants were – especially around Lord Voldemort himself. Many more talkative men or women would go quiet upon entering his presence, withdrawing into themselves – perhaps, Voldemort thought now, for fear of saying something wrong. He wondered now what that said about them, and about their loyalty to him. It was especially difficult to assess when paired with somebody like Barty, who somehow spoke, but without annoying him. Perhaps Barty was so comfortable with talking because he knew no part of his own self that would irritate his Lord.

He had never talked quite this much, yet it still was not irritating. Voldemort allowed the sounds of the boy's voice to wash over him, becoming sometimes like background noise. But he still picked out a few important phrases here and there. Karkaroff, for instance...

Voldemort tucked that thought away for later perusal. Tiredly, he cracked open his eyes and took another sip of wine.

At around the time that Barty moved on to Voldemort's other foot, there was a small tickle at the back of the Dark Lord's mind. Lucius, he saw when he checked in on the Dark Marks – trying to get into the guest wing. But it seemed the wards had stung him. Through the Mark, Voldemort listened in on Lucius's fearful, pained cursing, and chuckled to himself.

  


By the time Barty moved onto his master's other foot, he'd stopped talking. He just enjoyed the smooth feeling of the scales under his fingers when he dug his fingers and the palm of his hand into the pressure points he'd learned by heart once upon a time.

To give his mouth something to do that wasn't talking, he dared to pepper the foot with kisses and delighted in the way the scales glistened just a little wetly in the low light each time he looked at them.

Once he was done with his master's second foot after taking his sweet time, he buried his face in the hems of Lord Voldemort's robes and breathed in the scent that was starting to cling to them.

"Thank you for giving me this moment, master," he mumbled into the rich fabric before leaning back and looking up at that wonderful, peaceful, _alive_ face. "Is there anything else you require before I retire?"

  


It had been viscerally pleasing to watch Barty kiss his foot, and yet, somehow, even more pleasing to merely close his eyes and sit back. Voldemort thought that, if he were to curl up in the bed right at this moment, he would fall asleep instantly.

Yet, as he cast his eyes consideringly in that direction, he recalled that he had forgotten to unpack and hang up all the clothing he had acquired today.

"There is one thing you may do, yes," he said lazily in answer to Barty's query. "Unpack my robes and hang them up in the wardrobe. I want them to be given at least a night to lose some of their stiffness before we move locations again tomorrow." Another thought occurred to him. "Oh – and put your glamour back on and go down to inform Lucius I expect a place at the breakfast table for the both of us. If he chooses to ignore you, then that's on his head. Once that is done, you may retire."

  


"Of course," Barty replied with a grin and got up. He stretched his back because he'd sat hunched over and used a shrinking charm on his Prophet back issues. After vanishing his conjured cushion, he set about hanging up his master's robes.

Magic wouldn't do for a task like this, of course – it required a personal touch. He put each outfit into the wardrobe by hand and smoothed them down until they hung orderly and wrinkle-free.

"Have a good night, master," he said from the door and closed it with reluctance in his heart.

Outside the door, he put on his glamour and went down to speak to Lucius. He was confused to find him lying on a couch with a cool cloth on his forehead and a house elf tending to him.

"My Lord and I shall be down for breakfast. He expects two additional seats prepared," he told the house elf who nodded quickly.

"Yes Sir Master Edward, Sir, we shall be doing so for the Great Lord You-Knows-Who of course, yes!"

Lucius cracked an eye open then and watched Barty warily.

"Did we know each other during the war, Mr Smith?"

"If we did, I must have forgotten," Barty replied shortly. "I will see you in the morning, Mr Malfoy."

"Yes, quite," Lucius replied coolly. "You will be leaving after breakfast?"

The question sounded almost accusatory and Barty had half a mind to hex the old traitor into next week. Instead, he inclined his head a little.

"You'd best watch that tongue around our Lord tomorrow, Mr Malfoy. He isn't as forgiving as I am."

Barty felt a strange sense of validation upon being able to leave the great Lucius Malfoy with the last word as he went back to his rooms. He lingered outside his master's door for a second or twenty, putting his hand on the door and adding a little protective enchantment of his own. When he was satisfied, he retired to his own room.

He put his own new robes into the wardrobe, took off his clothes and crawled to bed in (new, silk) underpants and a simple shirt. He had half a mind to touch himself but managed to fall asleep before he'd fully formulated the thought.


	5. the (Safe) House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The subtext continues to be very gay. – Kit

In the morning – or so he assumed from the sunlight – Voldemort woke. He immediately closed his eyes again, drawing the blankets further up around his shoulders, and pressing his face to Nagini's side. She had coiled around his head again in the night, but he couldn't bring himself to chastise her as he had once done. The weight was comfortable, after all, and her cool scales felt nice against his warm ones.

He continued to doze, though he did not need to, until there was a short knock at the door.

  


"Master?" Barty called out after there was no answer to his knock. "I'm coming in!"

When he opened the door he immediately saw his master, still lying on the bed with Nagini, in his clothes from the day before.

It was a heartwarming picture and Barty felt almost bad to shoo them out of bed.

"Breakfast is in half an hour, master," he informed the man and opened the wardrobe. He chose a dashing, charcoal grey ensemble made of acromantula silk and went over to the bed.

"I propose you wear this today. The clothes from yesterday are all wrinkly. I'll take care of them once we're in the safehouse if you'd like."

  


Voldemort finally wedged his eyes fully open and freed his upper body from Nagini when the door opened and Barty entered. Apparently breakfast was soon. Voldemort supposed that he ought to pretend to care, and be on time, as he would rather keep Narcissa Malfoy peaceful. Lucius wasn't a worry – the man would likely be late, if his encounter with the wards was anything to go by. But the Narcissa Malfoy née Black who Voldemort had known by 1980 would never let ill manners fly in her household.

He glanced at the outfit Barty proposed as he stifled a yawn. His teeth continued to be in their slightly angled, sharper form, and he wondered if it would be an issue – yet he had managed to eat and drink perfectly well yesterday. It would probably be fine.

" _Nagini, get off_ ," he hissed, and removed her quickly from his shoulders before she could move to prevent it or make it harder for him. She complained, but he quickly vacated the bed and took the robes from Barty, who was standing there looking excited.

"That would be most appreciated," Voldemort said, referring to his current clothing. He was only just realising that he had gone to sleep in his robes – something that really had not happened since his days as a retail employee. "Stand outside and wait for me to change. I will not have you appearing at breakfast before me – it would be unbecoming for the servant to precede their Lord." With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the boy.

  


"Certainly," Barty obediently replied, tearing his gaze away with some difficulty.

If what he'd seen proved to be true, his master's scales and eyes weren't the only new serpentine features and his fingers itched to explore the sharp teeth, much like he'd itched to touch the scales.

Well, his first wish had been granted. Who was to say whether this one wouldn't be fulfilled as well, in time?

He left the room and stood next to the door. A couple minutes later, Wormy scurried out of his own room nearer to the stairs and shuffled away immediately once he saw Barty.

He'd never understand that guy, probably. Could one man truly be such a pathetic coward? Barty shook his head softly and waited for his master to emerge.

  


With careful movements nevertheless made with some haste, Voldemort changed into the fine gray robes – not black, but dark enough to fool those unwilling to look more closely. He paused for a moment to admire the contrast the fabric made with his silver-white scales – a contrast that would most likely have been still made with his previous pallor of a skin tone, but which was somehow enhanced by the hints of lighter silver embroidery thread throughout the robes. Rosalie certainly knew how to make a man look good.

" _Come back_ ," Nagini whined as he tucked his wand into his sleeve for easy access.

" _I have to eat some food_ ," he told her firmly. She looked unimpressed. " _You can come with me and scare Lucius – the pale furred one._ "

" _Hmm_ ," she hissed. Voldemort left her to the decision, and opened the door in time to see Wormtail shuffling around the corner. Without meaning to, his upper lip curled into a sneer of bared teeth.

Voldemort glanced over at Barty, who was standing by obediently, glamour on. He gave the boy a once-over to ensure his outfit was acceptably donned, and nodded with pleasure when he saw it was. "Come, Edward," he said, and proceeded grandly down the stairs. A quick check informed him that Lucius was talking anxiously with Narcissa, who sounded far less anxious, and so Voldemort advanced towards their location. Seemed the Malfoy dining room, at least, had not changed places over the past decade and a half.

They shut up when he approached, though this was useless, as he'd already heard Lucius' pathetic fears. He approved of Narcissa, in a distant way, though. She saw no point in complaining and merely dealt with things as they required dealing.

"Lucius," Voldemort murmured, making sure to layer the hiss over his words. "Narcissa. You look well."

"Much better only now that you are returned to yourself, my Lord," Narcissa said with a tight smile. A lie, but an acceptable one, Voldemort thought.

"I should hope," he said. "Shall we?"

  


"Let's," Narcissa agreed and led their little troupe towards the dining room.

She and Lucius sat down on the short ends of the long table and Barty waited with his master's chair pulled out until the man had sat down. Only then did he round the table again to sit down in his own chair, closer to Narcissa's whereas his masters chair was closer to Lucius. All carefully positioned.

"Mr Pettigrew has informed us he'd rather eat in the kitchens," Narcissa explained. "Mr Smith, is your seat acceptable? Will you stay with us?"

"Oh, yes, sure," Barty replied, looking down at his as yet empty plate with his ears red. "Everything's perfectly acceptable, Mrs Malfoy."

She was as gracious as hostess as he could remember her. He'd attended the Yule Ball here as a young man in his master's service for the first time – his first father having eschewed the traditional ball due to rumours of the Malfoy's alliance to the Dark.

He vividly remembered stumbling over his words when he'd greeted her and was thankful when the food appeared in that moment. He obediently loaded his plate and tucked in, grateful for the respite and determined to put on some mass.

  


Barty was clearly uncomfortable with the high manners of pureblood breakfast. Voldemort kept half an eye on him to prevent any upsets, but it turned out not to be necessary, as the boy kept to himself. Instead, Voldemort conversed with Lucius about the measures he expected to be taken at the Ministry – low-key, inconclusive ones, which would provide no evidence of Lord Voldemort's return, but which nevertheless would lead into his future goals.

Narcissa, though, had clearly recognised Barty. He caught her eye once, to ensure that she would keep her silence, and only found acceptance in them. He sent a stern look her way, and went back to his conversation with Lucius. If she thought on the topic, he knew, she would likely draw the right conclusions as to Barty's anonymity. He left her to it.

"Do you understand your tasks, Lucius?" he said finally, when the meal was done.

"Of course, my Lord," Lucius said obsequiously. Voldemort scoffed internally, but did not let it show on his face.

"Then as there are no questions, I shall take my leave of your marvelous estate," Voldemort said, and stood. "Come, Edward. I expect you to be ready to leave within the hour."

  


Barty, who always kept at least one eye on his master, noticed the silent exchange between him and Narcissa and cringed inwardly. Stupid. Stupid. Of course she'd notice.

She hadn't been Voldemort's in marking, but she'd been on their side all the same and she'd always been able to see things. She was observant and prim and proper and she'd _seen_ him immediately.

Who else would follow Lord Voldemort around like a puppy and, ugh, hold his _chair?_ He felt his ears burning even more and was relieved beyond measure to be released.

"I'll pack my things and start on your less personal items immediately, my Lord," he replied obediently and left the room a little faster than was considered perfectly polite.

He was in luck, though, because the minute breakfast had been over, Lucius had fled the dining room, so his own faux pas paled in comparison.

  


Voldemort held back an eye-roll as Lucius near fled the room. The pathetic man. He'd have to toughen Lucius Malfoy up again, if he was even to be worth the trouble.

Barty followed close on Lucius' heels, and Voldemort found himself sipping the last of his coffee alone with Narcissa. He glanced at her, wondering if she would speak up. When she did not, he wondered whether he ought to speak.

"I trust, Narcissa," he finally said, as he placed down his mug, "that you shall lead Lucius in the proper direction."

Narcissa returned that same tight smile. "Of course, my Lord. I support my husband in all his endeavors, and especially in his service of you."

"Good. See it is done."

He left, robe sweeping behind him, before she could say anything else, and proceeded back to his rooms.

  


Barty had already packed up his meager belongings, still unreasonably happy about his newly-acquire wardrobe. He was in the process of carefully folding and packing his master's new robes when the man himself entered the room.

"Just your personal belongings now, master," he informed him and completed his task before standing by the door with his gaze averted for privacy while Lord Voldemort packed.

"I'm sorry for being so, mh, _me_ in Narcissa's presence," he apologised softly.

  


The packing that Barty had not completed on his own consisted mostly of corralling Nagini onto his shoulders, for all that she was angry about being snubbed that morning. " _You could have followed me down_ ," he told her without sympathy, and plopped her onto his shoulders. The opportunity to regain the musculature on his upper body could not come soon enough, in Voldemort's opinion.

"Do not worry about it overmuch," he told Barty when the boy expressed regret over being recognised. "To be truthful, Narcissa may have recognised you even if you had not held out my chair, and she will keep her silence. Unlike Lucius, she understands what does not need to be spoken of."

With Nagini settled and the both of them down in the Malfoy’s apparition foyer, he offered his arm once more to Barty. "Very well. You have forgotten nothing?"

  


"Not much to pack," Barty grinned, relieved to be forgiven, and stepped closer again.

"I'm glad I get to come with you, master. Really. Thrilled, even! I promise you won't regret taking me with you."

With that, he took hold of Lord Voldemort's arm and braced himself for the nausea of a Side-Along Apparition.

  


Voldemort placed one of his own hands over Barty's, to ensure that the boy had a firm grip on him. Then, with another deep breath, he closed his eyes and wished himself into another place. The tube of apparition grasped him and threatened to break him, but he kept his destination firm in his mind. Only a second later, he and Barty were deposited at the head of a short dirt road, leading down a slope towards the ocean. A whitewashed beach cottage emerged from around the slope, and Voldemort saw with some relief that it appeared unchanged from his memories – the overgrown ivy and grass notwithstanding.

"Good," he said pointlessly. "Come, Barty," he said, and began to lead him down the slope.

When they had reached the door, Voldemort paused and checked the wards. Degraded, as would be expected from time passing, but no sign of attempts to enter. Good, again. He turned to Barty and grasped his servant by the wrist. "I will take some of your blood to key you into the wards," he said, and drew his wand intently as he waited for Barty's verbal consent.

  


"You didn't say it was at the _beach_ ," Barty whispered and his face became a mask of childish glee while they drew closer to their house. "I've never _been_ to the beach, master..."

He almost wanted to run straight towards the sea. It was so _big!_ He'd thought the Black Lake had been huge but this...!

Barty was roused from his craning around to get another glimpse at the sea by his master asking for his blood.

"Take as much as you need," he replied quickly. "Or more." He added the last part with a cheeky grin and ducked his head a little.

A safehouse of white-washed stone, right at the beach, and his master was to be at his side all day. He felt delirious all of a sudden and held his arm out for Lord Voldemort to take his blood as much as to steady himself against the wall.

This was _real_. This was _happening_.

  


Voldemort took his servant's wrist and muttered a soft " _Inseco_ " to draw the necessary blood from Barty's palm. He was not a fool – he had noticed the fascination his servant had with the ocean, and he considered briefly whether he might make use of that as he watched Barty's hand bleed into a globe of blood that the Dark Lord forced to hover in the air.

"I shall not take more than necessary until you are returned to health," he proclaimed as he ended the spell. With a quick incantation, the wards glowed deeply red, and were successfully updated. He healed Barty's cut with a thought and strolled to the front door.

"Now, it's likely to be quite dusty in here," he said, "as it has not been used in roughly fourteen years. I will need you to assess the cellar and outside of the house while I assess the condition of the interior ground and first floors. You will meet me in the kitchen area when you have finished," he told Barty as he pushed open the door and stepped into the safehouse. A flurry of dust motes met his face, and he pressed a finger to his face to press his nostrils closed. "If you feel lightheaded from the blood loss, though, seek me out immediately through the Mark. Do you understand?"

  


"I will, but you needn't worry," Barty replied, "it's just, uh, it's all been... a lot. The past days. I'll get over it!"

He bowed and quickly left the door behind to assess the exterior. There was an overgrown little herb garden you could potentially use to grow Potions ingredients or maybe some food and he made a mental note to remember that once they'd gotten settled.

The area from the house to the beach held a little gazebo with wooden chairs and a table that had seen better days. They'd be put to rights with a few spells easily and other than that, the view to the beach was unobstructed and _mesmerising_.

Reminding himself of his task, Barty turned his back towards the water and entered the house. There was, indeed, a lot of dust and he sent cleaning charms every couple feet on his way to the cellar.

To his surprise, there was a fully furnished potions lab and he grinned when he thought of the possibilities. As long as there was no more Polyjuice, he was so going to enjoy brewing in peace again and not in that blasted trunk of Moody's.

Other than the potions lab, there was an empty pantry he vowed to fill soon with the supplies he'd bought and a mostly empty room they would be able to use as they saw fit.

He returned to the rustic and altogether whimsical kitchen area and busied himself with cleaning while he waited for his master to return from upstairs.

  


There was only one bed.

How could he have forgotten that there was only one bed?

Voldemort stared at it, caught in his urge to change his mind about their place of residence, and unwilling to seem weak and indecisive in front of his servant. No – his other unknown safehouses were not nearly this conveniently sized for residence. He would have to make do with what he had.

Perhaps Barty would sleep on the couch... but he had not looked at the available couches yet, and transfigured mattresses were useless – Voldemort at least knew that well. What other option was there, but –

Well. He would merely have to reprimand Barty if the boy ever grew too touchy. Surely he would obey. He was good at obedience. Voldemort had always appreciated that.

He finished his survey of the floors, and returned to the kitchen to find Barty already tidying it up. "Your report?" he said, without preamble.

  


"The garden is overgrown but I should be able to get everything tidied up in a day at most if you wish to grow potion ingredients of your own," Barty began, counting down on his fingers and rolling on the balls of his feet. "There's a gazebo and a little terrace out towards the sea and I think I saw the wards flickering in the distance. Other than that the beach is empty and, mh, I guess typical as far as beaches go? I wouldn't know..."

He mused about beaches for a while until he realised he wasn't done yet. "Cellar, right! So there's three rooms. One's completely empty, the other is a pantry but also empty though not much longer aaand there's a potions lab. Some of the dry ingredients might still be good but I'd have to test them thoroughly. Is everything fine on the other floors or do you need me to take care of anything immediately? What rooms are there?"

  


"Hmm," Voldemort hummed, tapping his fingers to his chin. "The library requires attention, but I would rather attend to that on my own time and have you focusing your energies on the potions garden and the potentially viable supplies. Other than that, I consider the situation taken care of but for the cleaning charms which every room shall require. Do what cleaning you will in regards the potions, and clean each associated room – I will clean the others, and will summon you when it is lunchtime."

  


"There's a library," Barty repeated with a bright grin and hummed in appreciation. "It's you. Of course there's a library..."

He wondered what forgotten treasures his master had spirited away into this hidden place but dared not ask at this point in time.

"Consider it all done, master," he promised and went back into the cellar to get started.

After an hour of concentrated effort, the pantry was clean and stocked, with all the food items kept fresh for a month by an area charm that had come with the one month box he'd purchased.

He went into the potions lab after the food was sorted out and started cleaning everything with big bursts of magic that had the cobwebs and the dust vanish in a manner of minutes. It cost power but if he had anything to offer, it was raw magical power.

He was in the middle of sorting through the potions supplies when the gentlest of stings summoned him up to his master.

Barty caressed the Dark Mark with a sappy smile. How long had he waited to feel this connection again?

He grabbed a couple things from the pantry (some eggs, bacon, a loaf of bread) and bounced up the stairs to attend to his master.

"I got really far in the cellar!" he proclaimed, proud of his progress, and put the food on the counter.

  


Voldemort was happy to sit back after casting so many cleaning charms and lamenting the state of his books in order to allow Barty to prepare lunch. The afternoon was much of the same, until he had gotten the main floors of the house back to a satisfactory level of cleanliness, and had finalised his decision on the lack of multiple beds.

It didn't really matter to him if Barty slept upon the same mattress, after all. If the boy turned out to have any ill habits, a single word from Voldemort would see them corrected – so really, there was no chance of danger to his own rest. After dinner, again prepared by Barty, Voldemort stood and gestured to his servant. "Come," he said. "I would have you aid me in unpacking."

  


Barty followed Lord Voldemort up the stairs and into a large bedroom with a positively massive bed becoming of one of his master's station.

"Brilliant," he decided and went about unpacking the robes he'd packed this morning. He waited with his own clothes safely shrunken in his pockets and turned to face Lord Voldemort. "Is there another room or will I be sleeping downstairs, master?" he asked with a smile.

Dinner was still warm in his stomach and the fact that they were _safe_ and _no one knew where they were_ served to pull a pleasant sort of warmth over his senses.

  


Voldemort watched with pleasure as Barty unpacked his robes and hung them up. It was not exactly how Voldemort would have done it, but it was nearly that close, and Voldemort found it pleasant to be reminded of how well Barty served him. He examined the closet after the boy had finished, but found no fault with it.

"I originally intended that this would be a safehouse only for inhabitation by me and Nagini," Voldemort stated in reply. "As such, this is the only bed. But obviously, my needs have changed, so the building is perfectly capable of accomodating you as well."

  


Having Lord Voldemort deem his work acceptable gave Barty more of that heady, warm feeling and he smiled tiredly.

"It's an honour to be allowed here, then," he replied and bowed quickly. "I'll be sure to find a comfortable spot downstairs. I'll see you in the morning, master."

He quite fancied surprising his master with breakfast in bed. Maybe a quick hunt for a rodent for Nagini? Wouldn't do not to suck up at least a little to the snake.

  


Wait a minute.

Voldemort frowned at Barty. Though he knew this would likely make the boy think he had done something wrong, he could not help himself. "You intend to sleep downstairs, regardless?"

  


"Regardless of what?" Barty asked, suddenly unsure. Surely not. "Surely not," he repeated aloud.

He frowned and looked at the bed and then back at his master.

"You're... I hope I'm not making an utter, complete fool of myself but are you suggesting that, that I, _sleep there as well?_ " he rushed out, pointing at the bed with a shaking finger.

  


"Is that so difficult to believe?" Voldemort asked. It was perhaps a tad more sarcastic than it ought to have been, and he quickly reined it in, trying to remind himself of what he knew of his servant. Barty was loyal, devoted – and also eager to please, perhaps to a fault, though the fault had yet to show itself. But he also – and Voldemort had always seen the edges of this, but only now did he believe he was truly apprehending the full scope of it – chronically devalued himself.

He forced himself to speak neutrally and tried again.

"I would not force a servant who has shown his dedication so completely for a full year to sleep on a mere couch or transfigured mattress," he said. "As this is the only real mattress, and quite large enough for both of us, so long as you have no irritating sleeping habits such as snoring or night terrors, I see no reason not to present you the option. Do you have such, Barty?"

  


Barty flinched when his master chastised him but was coaxed out of the shell he was about to retreat into when the beloved voice turned softer once more.

"I don't believe I have those, master," he replied softly, eyes downcast. "Thank you for offering. If I do have annoying habits, I'll just, mh, put a silencing charm on myself or something," he promised.

There was a rolling kind of sensation in his tummy now and he felt a blush creep up from his collar to the roots of his hair. He quickly busied himself with putting his new clothes into the other wardrobe and was faced with the conundrum of _what to wear_.

It was summer, so he couldn't just keep on the expensive robes... He stared at his wardrobe for a long moment before swallowing his nerves and stripping down to a simple shirt and the pants, like the night before. He hugged his skinny frame awkwardly and walked over towards the bed with apprehension.

This was... almost everything he'd ever wished for so why was he so fucking nervous!? He decided not to fuck it up and sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks.

  


Thankfully, the small speech was enough to get the boy to accept. Voldemort watched Barty for a moment as he dithered over his own set of clothes in the smaller side wardrobe, before shifting his attention to the wardrobe which held his own possessions. Carefully, he sorted through them until he had located his bedclothes, and pulled on the leggings and loose tunic. He had not worn them last night, but immediately felt foolish for not doing so. Though his 'skin' was now more like scales, he could still feel textures, and the smooth fabric was cool and soft. Idly he tugged at the threads laced through the collar of the tunic, pulling them entirely out – he had always preferred them loose. Rosalie would have him by the ear if she knew, but then again, she did not have to know, now did she?

Barty was sitting on the edge of the bed closer to the bathroom when Voldemort turned. He left the boy to it, and instead went to coax Nagini off of the bedroom's balcony, where she had set up shop.

  


Barty took the moment of quiet respite to bury his burning face in his hands. At least his master wore _clothes_ which would make not doing anything foolish at least easier.

With a wandless incantation, Barty floated the lace his master had dropped into his outstretched hand and regarded the short piece of rich fabric thoughtfully.

Finally, with another incantation, he had the lace tie itself loosely around his little finger. Reminder not to fuck this up, Barty.

When his master returned from the balcony (a _balcony!!_ ) with Nagini wrapped around him, Barty asked his customary question to put things into perspective.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, master?"

  


Barty had taken the lace when Voldemort returned with a sleepy Nagini settled about his shoulders. He regarded his servant vaguely for a moment, but saw no reason not to allow it.

"Not at this time, no," he said in reply. "Merely – if you find yourself wishing to rise tomorrow, and I am still asleep, I should like to sleep in."

  


"I can do that," Barty smiled and crawled over the bed until he could slip under the thin covers.

At least there were two blankets...

He stuffed one of the many pillows under his head and hugged another close to his chest. It felt nice to press something to his chest.

Curling around the pillow with his face turned toward the window, Barty closed his eyes. He could hear the waves breaking and splashing against the shore from the bedroom and found himself relaxing despite the... situation.

"Good night, master," he whispered and his smile grew a little wider, a little more content, when a soft breeze played over his skin. So this was what freedom felt like...

  


Voldemort lay down on the empty side of the bed. It had been quite convenient to find two sets of blankets, and he arranged one of those around himself before settling down. Nagini crawled across his torso, part of her curling tight around his waist, and shifted until her head rested atop his.

A low hiss met his ears. " _Why is the skinny human in our nest?_ "

" _Because there's only one nest here, Nagini_ ," Voldemort hissed back. " _And he deserves to have a nest._ "

" _Hmm._ " She appeared to consider this for a moment, and Voldemort pulled two pillows to him in the meantime. " _Tell him I will not bite him, then._ "

"Barty," Voldemort muttered. "Nagini says she shall not bite you, so worry not on that account."

  


"Yeah okay... thanks?" Barty replied sleepily and wondered whether he should have been afraid of that happening in the first place.

Alas, he was too tired for thoughts and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schedule slip has officially occurred – one of us has started a summer research paper, and the other has major exams. In light of this, and because we both read the chapters over before posting, posting will be 'when we get around to it' until, I dunno, midway through June at the minimum? Possibly longer.


	6. Something Old, Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE SEXUAL CONTENT IS HERE AND IT AIN'T GOING AWAY.

The next morning, Barty was awoken by the sun tickling his nose and tried to rub his face, only to find that he couldn't move his arms. Mildly alarmed, he blearily opened his eyes to see what was the matter and _froze_.

His master's peacefully sleeping face was mere inches away from his and when he turned around, there was the _snake_ on the other side.

"Holy fuck," he breathed ever so softly and glanced down. Both Lord Voldemort and his familiar were wrapped around him in a tangle of limbs and... well, snake body, and it was both the best and the worst thing to ever happen to him.

Best because wow, being hugged like this made his heart swell at least three sizes, and worst because obviously this hadn't happened intentionally.

He was relieved to find he was still on his side of the bed, but only marginally so. With a bit of luck, he wouldn't be in too much trouble. Should he wake his master now? He didn't want to face the wrath of the snake, so he... decided to allow himself to stay put for the moment, soaking in the warmth and comfort being this enveloped provided him with.

  


Nagini was not terribly familiar with human mating rituals, as Voldemort had never engaged in them. But sometimes Voldemort had witnessed them, or at least the beginnings of them, and sometimes Nagini had also been there for that, so she considered herself an expert nevertheless.

Take now, for instance. The sand-furred human that Voldemort had been unnaturally nice to lately was turning redder, and was not at all angry that Voldemort was curled up with it. It definitely wanted to mate. Nagini flicked her tongue out to taste the air, and clicked her jaws firmly to herself in confirmation. Mating. She had called it.

She wouldn't tell Voldemort, though. He wouldn't believe her, and she knew he wouldn't believe her, so she would have to let him work it out on his own.

Instead, she lifted her head and crawled across the sand-colored human, until she could nudge Voldemort's (new and gorgeous) face with her snout.

" _Hey_ ," she hissed. " _Wake up. You grabbed the other human in your sleep._ "

  


He had... hmm?

Voldemort slowly opened his eyes. About halfway through this act, before he could register the meanings of the shapes and colors he saw, he became aware of what Nagini had said, and further of what warm body was clutched tightly in his arms.

Fuck. _Fuck_. Was the boy awake?

  


Having the snake slither over him was a weird but not uncomfortable feeling. Barty was glad at least one of the vice grips was released so he could finally move an arm and scratch at his nose.

Having the snake wake his master, on the other hand, had not been part of the plan and Barty paused with his arm halfway down.

What to do? Pretending to be asleep was out of the question now, and he was way too comfortable to panic and jump up.

He decided to play it cool. If he was in deep shit, he was in deep shit regardless so he boldly put the arm he'd been lowering onto his master's back, pulling him ever so slightly closer.

The warm weight against his chest and side was intoxicating and Barty swallowed against his dry throat.

"Morning," he whispered very, very softly and used his thumb to draw a tiny circle on Lord Voldemort's back.

  


Voldemort dearly hoped that his scales did not change color to reflect the blood-flow below them, in the way that human skin would have done. If they did, then he supposed he might as well resign himself to obliviating his favorite servant right now. Barty not only was awake, but moved to place a hand upon the small of Voldemort's back when he saw that his Lord was awake.

To his internal consternation – Voldemort did not know what to do.

He had never had to deal with such a situation before. What did a Dark Lord do when one of his servants got handsy? And yet – it wasn't technically inappropriate. Nagini had hissed that he had been the one to grab Barty, which seemed to be borne out by the fact that it was his own arms around the boy, Barty's own limbs lax until this one touch. But this was not – this could not be allowed to continue, nor to happen again.

Yet it felt – nice. Perhaps that was the word. When Barty moved a thumb in a circle against Voldemort's spine, it felt _nice_ , and a little shiver ran up his spine. A part of him wanted nothing more than to crush Barty more tightly against his chest and bury his face in the boy's hair. Voldemort very much did not like that part of himself.

He finally finished opening his eyes and moved away in one motion, sitting up so that there was no more possibility of contact. "Indeed it is," he said. His hand twitched with how idiotic that had been – he refused to slap himself for it, which would only make the problem worse.

  


Barty chuckled internally at his master's answer but took care not to show his amusement on his face.

"I didn't mind waking up like this," he reassured the other man and carefully stayed put where he was because Nagini was still splayed over his chest.

He was used to looking up at his master. He could do this.

"But you'd know that, of course," he added quickly, clearing his throat. "Me being... very open to touching you, I mean. So being touched by you is, uh, quite alright with me. Just tell me when to stop and I will."

He flopped his head back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling broken into nice patterns by rough wooden beams.

"I could make you breakfast if you could possibly, mh, remove the snake?"

  


There was a curious buzzing noise in his brain even as he took in the words that Barty spoke. The buzzing denied any attempts the Dark Lord might have made to respond. Voldemort could not – no, not only that. He could not, _did not want to_ , deal with this.

So he stood up from the bed without looking back at Barty. " _Nagini, let him up, please_ ," he hissed to his companion. In English, he announced "She should get off you within five minutes, so you may dress and do that. I will be in the shower."

He made sure to close the strange internal window, as well, so that he could be entirely alone.

  


Barty sighed after he'd watched his master's departure and decided instead to hug the snake to his chest, as he had five minutes of warmth and comfort left.

Even getting so far as to be allowed to touch his master's feet had been a master piece of patience – if only a stupid prophecy hadn't stalled his progress for 13 years...

Something fierce and primal in his chest still drew him close to Lord Voldemort and he ached to provide comfort in whatever way he could.

In his sleepy state, he supposed it was close enough to hug the snake for now, and, differently from Lord Voldemort, she seemed to appreciate the warm contact. And so, since it was still early with the sun barely risen above the horizon, it just so happened that Barty fell asleep again with Nagini still on his chest.

  


Nagini _would_ have gotten off the human, as Voldemort had asked. But it went and fell back asleep, so she didn't feel the need.

  


After a long cold shower, Voldemort felt he had excised the buzzing from his mind. He could think more clearly. He would ignore the issue. If Barty never brought it up again, then neither would Voldemort. It would be as if it had never happened. Voldemort enjoyed things that would be as if they had never happened.

He spared a glance for his body in the full length mirror when he finally stepped from the stall and turned off the water. Everything was still as they had been, and still he felt no pain or discomfort. This, despite…

He supposed he ought to work out what exactly was going on with the new situation between his legs, but not just now. Sometime later... Perhaps he would find some excuse to send Barty farther away for a time. To patrol the beach perimeter, perhaps – that was sure to keep the boy happy and occupied.

Yes, Voldemort thought as he opened the door and strode into the bedroom, he would do that later today. For now, he would dress, and –

Barty was still on the bed, fast asleep. Nagini lifted her head and glanced at him. Voldemort glared at her, and shifted as quickly as possible across the room to throw on a robe, lest the boy awake before he had covered his body. He only relaxed when he was properly covered, and only then did he turn back to Nagini. " _Why didn't you get off of him like I said?_ " he hissed.

“ _I decided not to_ ,” she hissed back, and coiled up a bit tighter on the boy’s chest. Voldemort struggled with the urge to roll his eyes.

Well, it certainly wouldn’t be beneficial to wake up his servant if his body needed the rest to heal. He would simply have to make breakfast on his own.

  


When Barty woke up again, he was alone. How could he have fallen asleep again, and with the snake draped all over him at that!

He tried to sit up and realised then that he was tucked rather firmly into the blanket. The methodical way the fabric was stuffed all around him _screamed_ Lord Voldemort, and also, snakes didn't have opposable thumbs.

Barty worked his arms free and rolled onto his stomach to bury his face in his hands. They'd _cuddled_. How was he to face his master ever again after having been so blunt as to admit –

He quickly went to shower and put on simple trousers and a loose, button up shirt with suspenders. He forsook the socks and shoes because it was summer and he'd heard nice things about walking barefoot in sand.

When he came down, Barty gasped upon seeing a dish with two pieces of toast heaped with scrambled eggs under a warming charm. He ate it reverently and decided that no amount of cooking expertise was going to top this culinary experience.

When he was done, he bit his lip and shook his head. His master needed space now, and so, not wanting to disturb him, Barty went outside and started his work weeding the garden.

Some of the Potion ingredients he'd inspected yesterday might even be viable to be put into the ground and produce a harvest.

  


After lunch, Voldemort sent Barty outside to spend ‘a couple hours or so’ checking the beach perimeter and assessing the state of the wards Voldemort had once placed around the property. Ostensibly, that time was more than necessary for that task – Voldemort fully expected that Barty would spend a bit of time experiencing the ocean for the first time.

In fact, he was rather counting on it. He would prefer to be entirely alone for something like this. Nagini was sunning herself on the back porch, and once Barty had left, Voldemort was able to proceed back upstairs to the bedroom and shed his outer robes. After some consideration, he removed the trousers as well, but kept his undertunic on as he sat down on the bed.

The irritating thing was that it was difficult to _see_ himself at that angle. With a cock, it was easy, but he didn't have one of those anymore. He wasn't too bothered by its loss, all told, but Voldemort did wonder whether women had this problem of being able to see their own loins easily. He felt a brief burst of sympathy for them.

Fingers it was, then. Voldemort reached down and traced the slit that had, since his resurrection, replaced the genitalia he had been born with. The area was for the most part still scaled, but he thought he felt a trace of skin remaining just around the edges. It was sensitive – he felt a faint shiver run through his pelvis and up his spine in time with the motion of his fingertip.

Carefully, he attempted to wedge a finger in. To his surprise it went easily, the slit opening up without any pain at all – almost as if this were natural. Emboldened, he attempted to put more fingers in, and soon found he was able to hold it open far more widely than he had expected. He could most likely put all his fingers inside, at least the tips of them.

Without quite consciously making the decision, he began to do just that. The inside of it was flesh, faintly wet, and felt as if it were formed into a shaft of some sort. Briefly Voldemort considered the analogy to female genitalia, and then discarded it, because it did not feel particularly helpful in that moment.

He probed further in, and then gasped as he touched something that sent pleasure up his spine.

It was differently textured than the rest of the interior, less smooth and more – ribbed, was perhaps the word he was looking for. He touched it again, experimentally, and then fell back onto the bed when that touch made heat coil further into his belly. With some exploration, punctuated by the occasional gasp, he found that the structure continued farther up than he could reach adequately, but seemed to taper as it did, and that it was on only one side of his body – the left, as he was using his right hand.

He wondered…

The fingers that he removed from himself were slick. He wiped them idly on the sheets as he pressed in with the fingers of his left hand, and, with the strangest feeling of delight, found that the textured area was mirrored on the other side of his body. He didn’t bother prodding this one to try and assess its size, and instead merely stroked it, enjoying the sensations. If he spread his fingers, he could feel both of them at once, but he soon returned to focusing on only the one.

He was, technically, done, Voldemort thought. He had enough information now to try and look up whatever had happened to him – see if there were any analogues in the natural world. In the back of his mind, he suspected he would find something enlightening if he researched snakes.

Still he didn’t stop. Instead he found himself shifting on the mattress, bringing a leg up, and angling himself so that his fingers could reach even farther in. His previous assessment had been wrong – he could in fact find the tips of the ribbed areas. They seemed spongier now than they had been. He wondered if that was a true observation, or if he were imagining it.

That didn’t seem useful.

Voldemort allowed himself to stop trying to analyse it all. Instead he thought only for the movement that came of stroking his own insides (strange, new, but not unwelcome), and the warmth and pressure that built the more he touched himself. His mind drifted, until he was able to imagine that the hands working at him were not his hands at all, but the hands of another. With his other hand he stretched himself open further, imagining that the twisting index finger against his – whatevers – was somebody else’s. He thought he saw a head of sandy hair poised over his hips, the faintest flicker of blue eyes looking up to meet his for an instant, and –

“ _Oh_ ,” Voldemort shuddered, and came.

  


As much as Barty had enjoyed the opportunity to spend time at the beach, he couldn't help but feel... sent away. Should he have immediately shot up upon waking up after all?

No, a small voice inside himself reassured him. Had he drawn away first, his master might have interpreted the action wrongly. It was a weird concept to think of Lord Voldemort as shy, yet here they were.

Better to always offer, Barty decided. Keep the door cracked open, so to speak. Would his master unconsciously seek comfort once again this night? A pang shot through him. Would he even be allowed to share Lord Voldemort's bed once more?

A premature sense of loss settled over his bones. Holding his Lord and Master close like this, being able to breathe in his scent and feel his heart beating where their chests touched, had been... everything he'd never dared to even dream of.

He wanted more of that and it was a weird feeling because Barty wasn't used to bone-deep desires that originated from within himself.

He snapped from his thoughts when the first waves licked at his feet and looked down in wonder. So he'd reached the water then. The surprisingly cool waves went up to about his ankles before retreating towards the sea once more. There were little crests of white turf dancing upon the boldest of waves and the sand under his bare feet stayed imprinted with his footprints until the next wave came to claim the sand for itself once more.

He'd finished his observation round so maybe... Barty flopped down into the hot sand, far enough away from the sea to not get a wet butt, and opened his shirt to allow the sun to shine on his skin before he flopped onto his back.

His skin hadn't been allowed sweet sun's kiss for... close to 15 years now? Half his life, probably. How old was he again now? Barty didn't even want to think about how many years he'd missed and instead busied himself with applying a simple sun protection charm. He still had a couple hours before he was supposed to be back and lounging in the sun sounded like something he'd really earned by now.

When he returned in time to start dinner, Barty felt very relaxed and like he was glowing from within. Napping in the warm sand had been entirely satisfactory and he thought he might sneak in a shower before bed... Maybe even be very, very quiet and get out some of the last tension coiling under his skin while enjoying the hot water?

As he was preparing some chicken curry by following one of the recipes their supplies had come with, Barty hummed some old lullaby or other to himself and thought he might just be able to get used to this sort of life for a while.

After dinner, he went upstairs to take a much-needed shower. His hair was full of sand and seawater and it felt like the pesky grains of sand had found their way into every layer of his clothing.

He went onto the balcony to take the clothes off and shook them out over the railing. There was, indeed, a shitload of sand raining down onto the beach below. He brought the clothes back in, vowed to find out how wix folk did their laundry when there weren't any house elves, and pulled some fresh pants, a short pair of trousers and a loose-fitting shirt from his (his!) wardrobe.

He took them with him to the bathroom and put them on a stool before stepping under the luxurious, giant shower head. When he turned it on, the temperature was perfect almost immediately and Barty took solace in the fact that his master preferred the same shower conditions he did.

After washing his hair and methodically removing all the sand and fresh sweat from his body, Barty just stood under the hot spray for a few moments. It was intoxicating to be himself once more. He'd even, he shuddered, showered as Moody to keep an eye on his surroundings at all times.

Quite without his active input, his hands started wandering over his body, cataloguing warm, flushed skin that had almost become foreign to him. It felt good to be healthy and whole once more and a little gasp escaped his lips when his fingers brushed over his nipples during his exploration.

Good to know some things didn't change at least, he thought to himself as he pinched the little nubs between his fingers and felt heat pool low in his belly.

Barty couldn't quite keep a groan from tumbling out of his mouth and rested his hot face against the cool tiles. He let one hand wander lower and bit his lip harshly when his fingers closed around his already-hardening cock.

He was safe here, he told himself while stroking himself gently, and another moan escaped from between his clashed teeth. His wand (Moody's wand) was still lying on the bed and he couldn't do silencing charms wandlessly. He'd just have to be quiet, somehow.

But how could a man be quiet if he'd gone so long without, Barty wondered and bit into his forearm to keep from groaning loudly once more. He realised belatedly that his teeth had closed over a part of his Dark Mark and shivered with lust while considering the tattoo.

Hazy memories of touching himself in the dead of night at Hogwarts, lips pressed to the skull and snake, formed in his head and Barty whimpered at the associations. He kissed the Mark, almost as an apology for biting into the part of his skin that wasn't his anymore, and kept his lips pressed against it while he stroked himself with his free hand.

His cock was almost painfully hard and he was glad to have his own, slender fingers back. Unbidden but not unwelcome, another memory flashed into his mind. His master's hand, ever so slightly fisted into his hair and by the Gods, he wanted like he'd never wanted anything before in his life.

He was panting now, narrow hips stuttering into the tight tunnel his fingers formed and allowed himself to imagine another kind of heat and warmth surrounding him instead. The details were hazy, but not the one he'd imagined with him and his panting became a series of breathless little moans, longing for release and company and... and...

"Master," Barty gasped into the crook of his arm, sweaty forehead resting against the Dark tattoo on his forearm.

"Fuck..." His movements became erratic and his knees were all shaky when he felt his climax draw near. "Master, fuck, please," he groaned desperately, hips stuttering one last time before the bliss of release washed over him and mercifully took his frazzled mind to somewhere far away for a short while.

When he came to again, he was kneeling under the hot spray of water, the very picture of debauchery. He got up shakily, gave himself another perfunctory wash down and dried himself.

His forearm was all red and littered with bite marks and Barty thought of concealing it. He decided to do just that once he'd retrieved the wand and pulled on the clothes he'd prepared.

He liked the short trousers that ended just above his knees, and the short but wide shirt was perfectly cozy.

Thus relieved and already sleepy again, Barty opened the bathroom door and strolled into the bedroom.

  


Voldemort had almost finished setting himself back up in the library after dinner when he felt it – a tug on one of the Dark Marks. Following it back with his mind, he was surprised to find that it originated just upstairs, from Barty. What could possibly have happened in the short time since he had seen the boy?

As he was not one to leave a mystery unattended, Voldemort proceeded up the stairs. He continued focusing his attention on the same Dark Mark, and felt further touches upon it – not ones that he would otherwise feel as a call, this time. And what was he doing to touch it? The impression did not feel like fingertips.

A strangled moan floated through the air as Voldemort came upon the threshold of the bedroom. It had not come from him, and neither was it a moan of pain. The Dark Lord was quite familiar with moans of pain – he had caused a lot of them in his day. This moan, in contrast, was one of pleasure, and he was not so familiar with those.

Even more odd was the fact that it was a word. Yet more odd was that that word was 'Master' – and it was spoken in Barty's voice.

Voldemort stopped walking. He tuned out from the Mark, certain now that Barty was in the shower – he could hear the water running and the boy's voice, still talking, litanies to a Master who Voldemort saw no reason to believe could be any other but himself. There was nobody else who Barty called 'Master', after all. But that would mean, too, that – After all, he thought with some shock, the groans with which his servant spoke rather firmly indicated what he was doing.

It was somewhat interesting, Voldemort thought clinically. This wasn't an unfamiliar situation – he was somewhat surprised that Barty had not changed his mind when Voldemort had emerged from resurrection snake-like and scaled. Then again, he hadn't shown any disgust either, so perhaps this made sense – but no, it didn't. Didn't it?

Caught up in musings, he forgot to move away when the door opened and Barty stepped out.

  


Barty still had a towel over his head and was rubbing his messy blonde hair dry when he became aware of another presence in the room.

He looked up, hair still dripping wet, to find Lord Voldemort stare down at him and became instantly as rigid as a statue.

"Master," he whispered, voice disbelieving and... was he actually _afraid_ of his master?

His knees gave out and he fell back onto his butt, long legs in a heap before him. The expression Lord Voldemort wore looked more thoughtful than murderous but still, Barty started shivering violently. He must have heard—there was no way he hadn't, was there? His gaze fell onto his Dark Mark, and realised anew that the forearm it was tattooed on was peppered with bite marks. He felt himself pale.

"That's..." _not what it looks like?_ It was definitely exactly what it looked like.

Barty didn't even try to hide his arm behind his back because, well, there was no use, was there? What to do? Mitigate the fallout? Beg for forgiveness?

His mind drew a blank and he stayed put where he was, back pressed against the wall and eyes wide and fearful.

"Please don't send me away," he dared to beg, voice shaky but earnest. "I wouldn't be able to live without you again. Please, I'll do anything, but don't... don't send me away..."

  


Barty took a moment to notice Voldemort's presence. Under other circumstances, the Dark Lord might have been offended. However, now, he merely felt amused – and then a bit bewildered, when Barty fell to the floor and started shivering. He would have expected that from a victim – an Order member, a civilian. He would not have expected it from a loyal servant who had never before shied away from him.

The Dark Mark on Barty's arm was peppered with red bite-marks. Voldemort had never considered the thing as a possible – what? Object of sexual attraction? A stand-in for his own person? But he supposed it might be so for somebody like Barty. That made sense enough, he decided faintly. It was a bit odd. But who was he to speak on oddity?

His servant began to beg, and Voldemort wondered again what he was seeing in his mind's eye. He wondered also what it meant that Barty thought he would not be able to live without his Master. (A thought tugged, then, at Voldemort's mind – he pressed it away, because he did not feel like dealing with that implication right now.)

But he needed to do something, or his servant would likely continue to be an uncertain and nervous wreck. Barty did not, Voldemort had found, do very well with uncertainty unless it came from outside Voldemort. Providing direction was certainly very firmly among Voldemort's skillset.

He stepped closer, ignoring the shuddering, and knelt down to address the only question he felt was pertinent. "How long has this attraction been present in you?" he asked firmly.

  


When no curses flew his way, Barty felt momentarily relieved. Having his master come closer, kneeling next to him even, was a gesture he hadn't expected and Barty felt calmer again when his master spoke with a measured voice.

He was good at spilling uncomfortable truths to Lord Voldemort.

"I can't recall it not being so," he admitted, shuffling over so he was on his knees instead of sitting.

Even when kneeling, his master towered over him, so much larger than life, and Barty dared to return that fiercely intelligent red gaze directed at him. "Ever since I've first met you, I've been ruined for anyone else – if anything, it got worse. There's only you."

For truly, who could compare with perfection? His hands balled into fists at his sides and he was brimming over with nervous energy. He'd never put his... feelings into words like this and it felt oddly freeing to finally have them out in the world.

  


Voldemort blinked at the quick admission. Yet then he immediately felt better about the entire situation. If Barty had always felt this way about his Lord, then clearly it could have had no bearing – rather, no negative bearing – upon his performance as a servant. The boy had already so distinguished himself... Voldemort could not see why he should find fault. The way that Barty so willingly met his eyes spoke too of his honesty in this matter.

Carefully, he reached out to take Barty's chin in a hand, and ensured that the boy would continue meeting his eyes. "Show me that first meeting," he said, "from your perspective."

He did not know why he wanted to know. Curiosity, perhaps – at least, this was what he told himself.

  


Barty shuddered when those long, warm fingers took hold of his chin and smiled rather uncertainly. A little self-consciously.

"As you please, master," he whispered and opened his mind for Lord Voldemort's intrusion. Ever since Azkaban and the prolonged Imperious exposure, he felt about his mind as an unattractive person might feel about their body and tried to summon the memories quickly so he could hide the disarray his mindscape was in.

There were short glimpses of a boy, for he was little more than one back in the day, sneaking into his biological father's study and unlocking safes and files with advanced spells. He copied them, put everything back the way it was, and there was a collage of him going to Diagon Alley dozens of times to send anonymous owls to the unofficial headquarters of the Dark Lord.

There were rapidly-alternating images of him receiving replies to his gifts with young Barty pressing intricate letters in a fine handwriting to his chest until one day, after he'd bought an owl of his own, she didn't come back alone.

Barty put up a good fight, all things considered, but still found himself in magically-fortified shackles with a sack over his head.

The Apparition was brutal but efficient – a long journey then, and he almost felt like he knew where his captors had taken him.

He was pushed to his knees and the sack was viciously torn from his head. Barty blinked against the light, though the room was not overly bright, and immediately, all the hairs on his body stood on edge.

There, on a throne worthy of myth and legend, sat the man that held all of Wizarding Great Britain in the palm of his hand. Barty felt small, all of a sudden, where the letters had made him feel tall and important, and he bowed his head.

Those red eyes gleaming from under the dark hood spoke of vicious power and a cool intelligence and he knew not whether they were in a forgiving mood towards young fools such as him.

"Pleased to meet you, my Lord," he spoke softly, but in the icy stillness of the grand room, his voice sounded amplified and shakier than he'd have liked it to be.

  


Ah, yes. Voldemort recalled this meeting. He had been briefly bewildered, he remembered, at the scrawny youth of the body under the silencing hood – had asked why only one of his Death Eaters had returned when he had sent three to fetch the mystery informant. He had been informed that the boy had taken out one of his stealthiest unmarked servants with a knee-reversal hex, and so the second had brought that poor sod to medical.

He had almost laughed, if not for the indignity of it all. Yet it had made him ever more curious.

He had remembered the meeting as a lord meeting a hopeful vassal for the first time. He had not bothered to think of the past contents of the letters he had sent to Barty – they had been to an anonymous person, and in Voldemort's eyes, had meant nothing but manipulation for his own gain. He had not intended for Barty to take them otherwise – and yet if the memory did not lie, then that was not why Barty cared.

It was strange to see himself through the eyes of another. He had spent a long time before his – he supposed, debut – as a Dark Lord obtaining the clothes, deciding on appearances, finding the proper combination of glamours and shadow charms to hide most of his face while leaving his red eyes bare. Much work had gone into making himself look – for lack of a better word – scary.

But Barty didn't see what Voldemort had intended to show. Oh, he had been worried – he had even been awed, which was another emotion Voldemort had sought to evoke. But behind the fear and awe was the strangest sensation, a warm emotion that Voldemort thought he might have felt before – maybe – but which he could not for the life of him name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _will_ convert you to nonstandard snake-anatomy Voldemort, anonymous reader. _I will._ – Kit


	7. What I Would Do

Present day Barty watched his younger self tremble with more than awe and less than fear in front of the magnificence that was Lord Voldemort at the height of power.

He remembered feeling like the meanest supplicant when he'd offered up his arm and his life and the bone-deep relief when the Dark Lord had nodded and taken his arm. The rush of magic he'd felt in that moment was more powerful than anything he'd ever felt before and his emotions had been all over the place after receiving the Mark he'd been craving for _months_.

"You won't regret this," young Barty promised, tears of relief and adoration pooling in his eyes, and present day Barty felt his master leave his mind again.

He dropped to his forearms, panting hard, and felt an echo of that same magic from back then pulsing through his Dark Mark.

"I'm yours, master," he reiterated, forehead pressed against the ground between Lord Voldemort's feet. "My mind, body, and soul belong to you, and you only."

  


Voldemort was still trying to identify that emotion when the memory ended. He left Barty's mind, pretending not to notice the disarray of his servant's mindscape. There would be time enough to fix that problem in the future, once Barty's physical body was back to health. His hand left Barty's chin – the boy pressed his head to the floor between Voldemort's feet, and the words that fell from him were exceptionally pleasant to Voldemort, and yet they also felt true.

"As it should be," he heard himself murmuring. Somewhat apart from himself, he reached the same hand down and rested it lightly on Barty's hair.

"In the future," he said, "do not bite the Mark. That is what summoned me. And do remember to put up a silencing charm. Otherwise, though I do not care for physical relationships, I care not what you do while alone so long as it does not compromise my goals. Do you understand, Barty?"

  


Barty made a keening sort of sound in the very back of his throat at the unexpected contact and softly, gently, put both of his hands on the hand on top of his head.

"I understand, master," he promised. "I... won't ask for anything that isn't freely given."

He was almost flat on the ground at this point and felt strangely calm now that so much was out in the open.

He released his light hold on his master's hand and got up before the hand could be taken from his head. After running his hand surreptitiously over his face, he looked out the big windows at the slowly setting sun.

"I think I should retire, master. I'm still weak and... I promised to take care of myself."

  


Voldemort hummed in acknowledgement, and moved to lift his hand. Barty beat him to it, sitting up and looking out the window – Voldemort took his hand back when it seemed prudent.

"I give you permission," he said, and stood. "I will be in the library for some time before retiring. Do not feel the need to wait for me."

  


In the night, Voldemort woke up. It was dark, and he couldn't feel Nagini on top of him at all. Somewhat blindly he groped around, searching for a thick snake body and cool scales. Instead, though, his hands fell on something warm – not scaled, but soft all the same. The heat fled up his hands and seeped into his bones, and he clutched it closer, basking in the pleasant sensation. A deep part of him threaded through his spine, usually shaky and anxious, relaxed. He wasn't used to it relaxing, but it was very nice indeed, and he immediately fell back to sleep.

  


When Barty rose from a deep slumber a short while before the sun was set to rise, he became aware of a weight pressing on one half of his body. He knew immediately what had happened – again – but was a lot calmer this time around.

He snaked the arm his master was lying on further around the man's back and used it to hold the warm, smooth head closer to his chest. His master smelled fresh and heady and altogether beautiful and his eyes fluttered shut in bliss.

His free arm came to rest on a shoulder, awed by the thick muscle he found there, and started wandering up and down the broad back, lazily caressing the man's spine and sides over the shirt he was wearing.

It became a bit of a trance-like situation for Barty where his hand moved almost on auto-pilot while he enjoyed the freely given closeness his master was seemingly prone to during the night.

  


Under normal circumstances, Voldemort awoke quite quickly, and somewhat unpleasantly. This morning, for some reason, he felt warmer than usual. Something was moving along his back repetitively, almost caressing, and there was a hand on his –

_There was a hand on his head._

With barely a conscious thought, his magic struck out. For a moment of panic, Voldemort heard only the short cry of pain, felt only the hand removed from his head, and knew he had been successful. Then his vision cleared further as he pushed himself up from the mattress, and saw – only Barty.

  


Barty was unpleasantly roused from his blissful trance by a sharp, sudden pain in his right arm.

He instinctively pulled the arm towards himself and regretted it because the movement sent pain shooting up into his shoulder.

He looked up at his master who was staring down with a wide-eyed unfamiliar expression and he could pinpoint the exact moment when Lord Voldemort awoke fully. The eyes cleared and his gaze became more focused, less hazy.

"Mornin'," Barty muttered with an ill-concealed grimace of pain. "I think I should maybe go sleep downstairs after all because... that was definitely my humerus breaking."

  


The Dark Lord spent a moment mentally cataloguing what had just occurred, for he felt bewildered. Somehow he must have rolled over – yet again, why did he keep doing that? And Barty had not pushed him away, an action which admittedly made more sense after last night. But Voldemort had lashed out with his magic before he was aware of what had been going on –

Oh, he thought distantly as the boy grimaced and held his arm gingerly.

He had broken Barty's arm.

He did not like the feeling that washed over him then. He hadn't actually wanted to hurt the boy. It was merely a reflex.

Without consciously making the decision, Voldemort reached out and carefully took the broken arm. "Here," he said, casting a quick diagnostic to be sure the bones were aligned before sending the healing charm through his servant's arm.

  


Just as quick as the pain had come, it went away again and Barty sagged in relief.

The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away, he heard a muggleborn student from his class in Hogwarts say in his head and snorted a little at the memory.

He hadn't even been able to enjoy his master's magic this time because the adrenaline was still pumping through his system something fierce.

"I'm... unsure whether I should stay, master," he admitted. "I'm kinda getting mixed signals here. I don't much mind the arm but... what if you do more serious damage next time? If there... is a next time."

He simply stayed on his back for now, rubbing the part of his arm where the break had occurred.

  


In the end, Lord Voldemort sent his servant to sleep on the couch. It did not sit well with him – but neither did he want to awaken one morning and find a wandless _Diffindo_ had cut Barty's throat.

It was ridiculous, but the bed felt colder the next night. He told himself he was imagining it, and held Nagini closer.

  


About a week later, they had finally settled into a routine. Voldemort would spend his time in the library, researching the resurrection ritual or other magics, or plotting his next moves. Sometimes he would depart to seek out certain Death Eaters and pass them orders – or to locate and punish traitors. Barty would cook the meals, spend time in the garden or working on the cleaning process, and in the evenings, Voldemort would call the boy to wherever he had decided to sit and relax for the evening, to massage his feet while Voldemort partook of some wine.

Finally, he found the time to depart and pick up the past week of Prophet copies. Voldemort barely kept his hands off them before he had returned to the safehouse, and tore into the first article – all about slandering Dumbledore, because of course 'You-Know-Who' wasn't back. It was enough to make a Dark Lord cry of laughter.

  


Barty felt his fingers twitch when the stack of Prophet Issues fell over next to him, toppled by his master – laughing? He interrupted the massage he'd just gotten started with and righted the newspapers once more.

He was grinning as well until his gaze fell on the top most newspaper. His own face, tear-streaked and sobbing and about 13 years younger than he was now looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes.

Barty quickly read the accompanying article and felt bile rise at the back of his throat. So they knew his tale of woe then, and even the dumbest death eater would be able to add 2 and 2 in this case…

  


The massage did not restart. It was in this way that Voldemort knew something might have gone wrong, and so he put the paper aside and glanced down. Barty was staring at an open paper, eyes fixed on – his own face?

Ah.

Voldemort reached down carefully and tugged the paper, and the accompanying image, away from the boy, and put it to the side. Then he reached back down again, for Barty still had not moved much, and gently placed a hand on the boy's head.

"What troubles you?" he asked.

  


Barty's eyes fluttered shut once more and he made an aborted movement to place a hand on his master's. Instead, he crawled closer so the man wouldn't have to lean down. The warm weight on top of his head was... he couldn't quite put into words what level of comfort it meant.

"They know, master," he answered, opening his eyes again and fixating on a shelf to his left. "Everyone knows I've sobbed my heart out when I had to go to Azkaban and couldn't look for you anymore, and they all know I was weak enough to be a mindless slave to... to that wretched man for 12 long, long years..."

He felt the urge to touch his master's hand again and couldn't resist this time. With both his hands gently trapping the lightning rod on his head, a traitorous stream of tears started flowing from his eyes and his chest heaved with broken little sobs.

"They'll all know how weak I am and that I didn't manage to find you," he continued, forehead pressed against an armrest of his master's chair. "They know it all... Dumbledore force-fed me Veritaserum and..."

He was mortified to show so much weakness in front of his master but the catharsis of opening his heart to the most important figure in his life... it outweighed any reservations he might have had.

"I wish I'd have been able to locate you," he whispered, not for the first time. "I'm... so fucking glad you're back, and I'm not going to let them take you from me ever again. I'm a lot stronger now, and my magic has matured. I might still lose, but they'll never get to you as long as I'm alive."

He tried but couldn't raise his gaze to look into his master's eyes so he tightened his hold on the hand on top of his head instead, making circling movements on the back of his master's hand with both his thumbs.

"Just say the word and I'll move mountains for you, master."

  


Voldemort dug his fingers faintly into Barty's scalp as the boy spoke. There was a moment of panic when he began to sob, but Voldemort pushed that away as well. The sobs were light enough, and he seemed to have finished seeking what comfort he wanted in Voldemort's hand on his head.

How strange, he thought, as Barty made his declarations, and a wave of – _something_ – welled up in his chest. He had always required his servants to be willing to die for their Lord, but he had required it in the sense of a war and in the sense of the feudal Lords of old. He had not meant it to be so deeply personal – had not really thought he could attain such.

Carefully, he shifted his hand down Barty's face and onto the boy's cheek, still stained with tears. With that grip he pulled his servant closer, so that Barty might rest a cheek against Voldemort's legs through his robes. He then returned his hand to the top of the boy's head.

"Truly, nobody but Nagini managed to find me with any intentionality," he told his servant. "As you do not have a familiar bond with me, you were inevitably to be at a disadvantage." He dug his fingers into Barty's hair again, enjoying the texture of it. "Judge yourself not too harshly. If ever I require a mountain moved, I will come to you first of all."

  


Barty's breath hitched in his throat when his master's hand came to rest on his cheek and pulled him in incredibly closer. With his face pressed into the soft fabric of his master's robes and long, thin fingers tangled in his hair, Barty could hardly remember how to breathe.

He angled his face sideways and nuzzled ever so slightly into the strong, warm leg he was allowed to seek comfort at. When the fingers in his hair tightened, he couldn't quite contain a breathless moan from tumbling out of his mouth and sought to drown it in the expensive fabric of Lord Voldemort's clothes.

"You're right, master," he realised and a small smile stretched his mouth. "If my service to you is adequate, no outside opinion should ever make me question my worth to you. You truly are wise..."

Secure once again in the knowledge that he'd chosen right, all those years ago, Barty stayed kneeling at his master's feet and brought up a hand to rest on the thigh where his face was resting. He stroked it in small circles close to his cheek and made pleased little sounds of contentment whenever his hair was tugged experimentally.

  


Those circles again. Voldemort wondered for a moment why they seemed to be Barty's default, but he pushed the thought away. That, too, did not seem important.

Instead, he set himself to considering them and how they felt. Once he fought past the initial shudder of revulsion at being touched, it was...

Pleasant. That was the word he was looking for. It was nice.

"Tell me, Barty," he said. "Is there anything at all you would not do for me? Do not lie, if so."

  


"I'd die for you in a heartbeat," Barty admitted without having to pause to think. "As for serving you while alive... I suppose it would be hard to, mh, no, that'd be fine, too."

He went through a lot of scenarios in his mind and couldn't think of a single one that he'd refuse to do if his master asked personally.

"I don't think there is anything," he finally said. "If it ever comes to an order like that or if I can think of something, I'll let you know if you want. But killing, being maimed, pretending to be who I'm not, lying to... anyone at all, torturing, being tortured... there's nothing I'd refuse to do for you."

He nuzzled impossibly closer into the leg and boldly increased the radius of his caresses when a thought slammed into him and stole his breath.

"There is... something," he shared haltingly, looking up into Lord Voldemort's face with a pained expression. "I wouldn't consent to have my memories of you Obliviated if there should ever be a need for that. You'd have to take them from me, kicking and screaming."

  


What a strange hard limit. Yet Voldemort had a feeling he ought not to complain about it, and so, he did not complain.

"I do not foresee that becoming necessary," he said. For a moment the Dark Lord sat back, though he retained his hand on Barty's head. Mindful not to crush the boy's fingers, he crossed his legs, the better to lounge.

It was probably the wine, he told himself. It was giving him flights of fancy. And yet he had also been dead, or nearly so, for almost fourteen years. He did not want to lose time again, nor experience, immortal as he was. Was that not the point of being immortal? To be able to live?

He dug his fingers once more into Barty's hair, and decided.

"Should you wish to move back upstairs, to the real bed," he said slowly, "I have worked out a way to prevent further unfortunate injuries."

  


Barty merely groaned in response at first and pressed his face into the crook between Lord Voldemort's crossed legs. That hand in his hair on top of everything was _doing things_ to him. He'd never felt this close to his master before and hardly knew how to contain the intensity of what he was feeling.

"There's nothing I'd like more," he whispered, bringing his other hand up to stroke the other thigh too now that it was close enough. "Being close to you... it makes everything okay. All those years..."

He stopped himself there lest he get lost in unfortunate memories again and instead cherished the moment, waiting for direction on when to get up and follow his master. To bed. _Gods._

He wondered what measures Lord Voldemort would be taking, and whether they called for them to be closer or further apart.

  


He had of course expected Barty to say yes. It was the only possible answer based on all Lord Voldemort knew of the boy. Yet all the same, a strange release of tension trickled down his spine the moment Barty actually assented, and Voldemort found with a start that he was pleased.

For a while longer he remained there, sipping his wine and tangling his fingers in his servant's hair. He wondered idly what it might be like to tug more harshly on them, but refrained. (Perhaps later, he thought.)

With a wave of his hand he sent the empty wine glass to the side table. Barty could collect it tomorrow, after all. Instead he stood, again careful not to crush fingers, and removed his hand from Barty's hair. A curious sense of loss followed – the Dark Lord ignored it.

"Come," he said, and proceeded upstairs. As he walked, he spoke in explanations. "It appears," he said, "that my sleeping body is prone to latching onto other living things while my mind is unaware. I propose to mitigate this by simply sleeping by you immediately. You may hold onto me lightly if you desire," he continued, "but do not touch my head. That is almost certain to result in another unfortunate injury when I awake."

They had reached the bedroom, and Voldemort paused to glance back at the boy. "Do you understand?"

  


Barty followed his master into the bedroom and heard his pulse beating in his ears during the explanation. Sure he understood, and he nodded his assent because suddenly, his mouth was too dry to form words.

Instead, he busied himself with changing into his sleeping wear which, well, merely consisted of keeping on his pants and pulling on a loose cotton shirt over his naked chest.

He'd been filling out the past week, too, and it wasn't quite so hard to change while his master was in the room. Then again... A small smile stole its way onto his face. He'd promised his body to the man a long time ago, so what was there to be self-conscious about?

In an effort to make this as easy as possible for Lord Voldemort, Barty climbed into the bed and prepared the covers so he'd only have to flip it over them one-handed once they were both lying down.

Then, he waited, with his heart beating and his eyes fixed on the sky and sea outside the tall windows.

  


Voldemort found himself pausing once he had placed his bedclothes upon his body, and glancing out the window, rather than moving to get in bed. He should not be hesitant about this, he told himself fiercely. He had decided. It was done. Yet there was a small voice in the back of his mind, telling him that he was making a dreadful mistake. That he should be satisfied with Nagini's weight on him while he slept, and that he needed no more than that. That he was being stupid to imagine that this might be –

Behind him, he heard the door opening, and turned. Nagini was slithering in, and she reared up to look around.

" _The skinny human is back_ ," she observed.

" _That is so_ ," Voldemort hissed, and went to her. He touched the scales on her head and scratched them idly.

" _Good. Maybe now you'll be less mopey._ "

" _I am not 'mopey'._ " Voldemort scowled at her.

" _Are too_ ," she hissed. " _Well? Let's nest._ "

He supposed that if Nagini approved, it must be fine. Using absolutely all his self control to appear relaxed, he laid down in the empty spot beside Barty.

  


Barty stayed still for all of maybe ten seconds and when Lord Voldemort didn't seem to want to roll over, he grabbed the blanket with his right hand and rolled onto his left, smoothly draping the blanket, and part of his torso with it, over his master's chest.

Gods, but the man smelled _good!_

"You smell very nice," he complimented, holding his master's right arm carefully. He nuzzled his head onto the man's shoulder and hid his face against the warm scales there. He was careful to stay away from Lord Voldemort's head and sighed in contentment once he'd gotten comfortable.

One of his legs was pressed against his master's, and he hoped that being the one held onto as opposed to having to seek comfort himself would make this easier for the man.

"Is this alright?" he whispered, voice warm and sleepy. "Don't worry if you hurt me accidentally, I won't hold it against you."

  


Voldemort fought desperately with himself not to stiffen as Barty rolled over and onto him. He thought he might have managed it, but couldn't tell. Fortunately he was soon distracted by the warmth that began to seep into his skin where the boy held on to him, and felt himself relaxing properly, this time.

"It is acceptable," he murmured. On a whim, he tangled his fingers back into Barty's hair before closing his eyes.

  


And to think he'd already been content with laying entangled like this!

Once Lord Voldemort's fingers found their way into his hair again, Barty felt a shiver of pleasure run down his spine and bit his tongue to keep from moaning. Wouldn't do to scare his master away now that he'd finally been allowed in like this.

There was just one thing he _had_ to try and he moved his head a little as if to get more comfortable. It fulfilled his desire when it served to pull his hair and this time, Barty couldn't quite contain a quiet gasp from escaping between his lips.

It felt exactly as good as he'd hoped it would and the overwhelming pleasure made him screw his eyes shut and burrow just a little closer to his master.

"Thank you for this," he whispered, slightly breathless, and closed his eyes though he supposed sleep might not come all that easy tonight.

Barty felt no regret though because staying awake meant experiencing this more consciously and he thought that one night spent like this would leave him with enough pleasant memories to fill the gaping hole in his soul left behind by Azkaban.

  


In the middle of July, Lord Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair and waited for Barty to clear the dinner plates. It had been an exceptionally hot day. Without the aid of magical cooling charms, Voldemort thought, he would certainly have cancelled the training session – but fortunately, as mages, they had a bit more power than all that. Idly, he leafed through Barty's most recent report as he waited for his servant to finish up with the dishes, listening to the sound of running water as he did.

Albus Dumbledore was still a victim of libel and slander. Harry Potter had been dragged along for the ride, though still nobody had been able to get a hold of Potter's muggle address. It was no matter for the Dark Lord, though – he supposed that Dumbledore expected an attack most keenly during the summer months. But Voldemort had that ace up his sleeve in the form of the lovely ever-changing map. Potter would not really be safe at Hogwarts once he had finished analysing it and set up the proper arithmantic formulas to record Potter's movements and habits.

In the meantime, the Dark Lord had focused on re-conditioning his body, mapping out the lay of the current political landscape, slipping Death Eaters back into the social bodies where he wanted them, and reactivating his various factions and undercover cells, such as they existed. His little side project was researching what had gone (admittedly minorly) wrong with his resurrection, and devoting some degree of resources towards adjusting his physicality to be a bit more human.

An ache ran through the Dark Lord's shoulder. He rubbed at the muscle absently, rolling the joint in its socket, and thought irritably that he might be sore tomorrow. He didn't much like that idea.

Barty returned then, wiping his hands dry on a cloth, and an idea occurred to Voldemort.

"I should like a massage tonight, I think," he said.

  


"You get a massage every night," Barty grinned, sitting down on his own seat. "Why would I deny you that pleasure now, of all nights?"

  


"Ah," Voldemort replied, realising his admission. He set the report down. "No, I meant – I daresay my entire body could use the attention of a skilled masseuse after that training session." He rolled his shoulder again, to demonstrate.

  


...

_Oh._

Barty blushed quite furiously and hid his face in his hands.

"I'd be honoured, master, but..." He blushed even more and turned his face away, "I can't promise that my body would... completely obey me, if you know what I mean?"

It had been hard enough to keep his desire to touch _more_ to himself those last weeks, made no easier by their constant closeness during the nights.

During the long, hot days while he was busy researching or taking care of their cottage or cooking for his master, it was easy enough to keep his mind off the pull that was drawing him in constantly. But during those intimate, cozy nights, bodies cooled enough by cooling charms that cuddling was a boon rather than a chore, Barty had had to use the bathroom as a refuge to take care of his needs more than once. His master had been ever gracious and welcomed him right back each time, but a full-body massage?

"Still, I will of course do as I'm told. Gladly so."

He stood up, ready to follow his master to their bedroom, since the man had hinted at an early night due to both of them being knackered from their training.

  


Voldemort blinked a moment. Massages were sexual? Then again, he admitted to himself, it wasn't as though he himself had any experience with the sexual side of human relationships. Anything was technically possible.

"So long as you can keep your hands to massaging only, I see no problem," he said, feeling rather uninterested in the idea that the boy might end up with an erection during the process. Barty could go take care of that on his own afterwards if he needed to. It was not, Voldemort thought, any of his business – nor did he really care to know. (He thought about it for a moment, anyway – wondered what words Barty might say behind his silencing charm. But then he pushed it away because, he reminded himself, it wasn't relevant and did not matter to him.)

He took the final sip of his wine and stood, waving for Barty to follow him. "How much access to skin do you require?" he asked.

  


"Since I'd be using the oil I've been using for your feet, I'd say all the skin you'd want massaged? Ideally," Barty shrugged.

Ideally indeed, his mind heckled helpfully as he followed his master up the stairs and changed into his sleeping clothes. He quickly went into the bathroom to retrieve the massage oil he'd procured on one of his outings and warmed the bottle with a careful spell.

He tried not to think of the implication that his master would know intimately what was going on if Barty vanished into the bathroom after the massage. Instead, he forced his face into a calm smile and left the bathroom to join Lord Voldemort on the bed.

  


Voldemort easily divested himself of his outer robe and tunics whilst Barty was changing. Then his servant vanished into the bathroom – Voldemort assumed to retrieve the massage oil he had taken to using – and the Dark Lord paused, looking down at the long leggings he still wore.

He could place his sleep leggings on, he supposed. His calves would still be massaged if he did so – Barty would merely have to focus on his back and upper body. But the muscle aches were also in his thighs, as Voldemort believed in conditioning all areas of his physicality. It certainly wouldn't make sense if he were to neglect them – but...

He very clearly did not have a cock anymore, if he were to wear only his pants. Voldemort hadn't mentioned this fact to anybody – it wasn't any of their business, after all. Only Nagini knew, and she, typically, didn't care, and indeed hadn't even commented on it the one time they had shared a soak in the bathtub and it had been obvious.

He stood still, hands on his hips, and considered this for a moment. Then he told himself he was being stupid – and besides, part of him wondered if Barty would say anything, or if he would correctly note that it was not his business.

He removed his leggings and sat cross-legged on the bed, awaiting Barty's return.


	8. Mutuality

Barty swallowed with an audible click in his throat as he surreptitiously watched his master sitting on the bed like _that_ with fewer clothes than he'd ever seen the man wear in his _life_ and considered that he might be the luckiest boy in the world to be allowed to touch, to caress, to massage so intimately the greatest wizard to have ever lived.

He coaxed the man into a position where he was lying flat on his tummy and hummed in appreciation at the lovely sight.

"Just relax," he whispered with a little more heat in his voice than he'd originally intended. "I'll take care of you."

He knelt beside his master's left side and allowed himself only a moment to cherish the lovely, pale sight before him, hundreds of tiny scales glistening in the setting evening sun.

Reverently, he popped the cork of the oil bottle and applied the warm, smooth mess liberally on his master's back. Not one for teasing, his hands immediately followed and spread the oil along the expanse of his master's back.

That done, he started the massage in earnest, rolling his palms in controlled if not exactly practised movements over the gently sloping muscles. He took especially great care with his master's shoulders and kneaded the firm flesh methodically, eager to incorporate the man's noises of pleasure or hisses of pain and adjust his pressure accordingly.

"Is this as you'd imagined, master? Shall I go on?"

  


Voldemort's heart attempted to stutter back into that familiar anxiety when he began to settle down onto his chest, laying flat. He forced the feeling away with more facility than he once might have done – after all, how many nights had he held Barty so close that he might have done anything while Voldemort was asleep, and yet the boy had done nothing?

The oil had been warmed, and was extremely pleasant on his back and shoulders. The pressure that followed was yet more pleasant, knotted muscles that Voldemort had not even truly been aware of vanishing beneath Barty's sure hands. The Dark Lord hummed in pleasure as his servant continued up to his shoulders, kneading the muscles that were now much thicker than they had been on his resurrection day.

"Very nice," he murmured when Barty requested feedback. "Continue."

  


"Mhh," Barty hummed in response and took hold of his master's hand closest to him. He caressed each finger and firmly massaged the palm and the back of the man's hand before moving further upward. He lavished both forearm and upper arm with attention and only just managed to keep himself from pressing a kiss to his master's shoulder.

He shuffled over his master, careful not to step on him or touch overly much and repeated his caresses on the man's other arm. He stayed there and kept massaging the side of the back he hadn't been able to reach all that well from the other side.

When he was done, he moved down and massaged up his master's feet and calves in movements that had long since gone over into his muscle memory before he saw himself faced with a daunting task indeed.

He tried not to let his apprehension show in his hands as he started to put firm pressure on the tight, strong muscles of his master's thighs. He fixated on a point in the middle of his master's back and told himself not to look too closely but the rise of Lord Voldemort's butt so close to his fingers... if he just reached out... had his body, predictably, react with sending blood into his middle.

Barty swallowed against the dryness in his mouth and shifted to get more comfortable though he only managed to create some delicious friction for his straining cock. He shuddered, then, and gasped at the unexpected intensity of his pleasure. Surely massaging someone else wasn't supposed to feel _this_ good?

Well, he was definitely not going to complain, he thought to himself with a flushed little smile, and continued his massage by finding the hidden pressure points along his master's inner thighs.

  


Voldemort sighed as his arms were lavished with attention. His muscles were already feeling the sweet relief of it all, aches receding to give way to relaxation. Then his feet – Voldemort was used enough to this, having experienced it every night for nearly a month, but it was nevertheless far more pleasant when paired with a full-body massage.

Then came the thighs. Voldemort abruptly decided that he had been right to go in his pants, rather than in his sleep leggings, for he would have regretted missing out on this. The scales on his thighs were sensitive and rarely touched, and the feeling of warmth against them reverberated up his spine and led him into even more boneless relaxation. Distantly, he heard Barty give a little gasp – but there was no change in the motions of the massage, so Voldemort discarded the sound.

Then the positions of the fingers changed, shifting around his thighs until they touched the insides of those limbs. Voldemort felt a great shiver running up his body in response, and warmth growing in his stomach the longer the fingers pressed upon him. He carefully, quietly bit into the pillow beneath his face to prevent a moan from escaping him. It felt much nicer than he had expected – almost as if he were touching himself once again. He had done it twice now since his resurrection – the first time exploratory, the second, more experimental, drawn out for longer as he explored his insides thoroughly.

He felt a strange sensation between his legs, as if water had been spilled – but warm water. He did not know what else to call it, and knew no more about it, beyond the truth that it had set his loins to throbbing.

  


Barty drew in a shaky breath when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and noticed that his master was actually _biting a pillow_. It was, perhaps, cruel to continue his ministrations as single-mindedly as he was but Barty supposed he deserved the title Dark Wizard in more ways than one.

An impish little grin found its way onto his face as he took to pressing impossibly deeper into his master's strong muscle, stopping just at the edge of the man's pants but being sloppy enough that the simple garment was already glistening with massage oil at the edges.

One hand wandered up, too, exerting pressure on the small of his master's back right above the hems of his pants. Barty decided then and there that pressure points were one of the great joys of life and enjoyed the flushed, _alive_ glow his master was exuding.

"I'm close to being done," he warned, voice deeper than it normally was. And then... "Is there anything else you require of me before I take my leave for a while?"

  


Voldemort drew in a long breath as Barty continued his ministrations. His muscles continued on their path to full bonelessness – the warmth continued to pool in his stomach. He thought he had a sense of it now. No wonder, he thought distantly, that massages would be considered sexual, if they could cause reactions like this.

A hand pressed deep at the small of his back, and Voldemort's spine finally gave up the last ghost of tension. He sighed deeply and contentedly, even as his loins continued to seek attention that he refused to give them with somebody else here.

"No," he hummed in response to Barty's query. Right – of course. His servant was likely aroused. Voldemort certainly didn't want him to take care of that here. "Nothing more. You may go."

An idea struck him as he heard the sound of the shower door closing.

  


Barty erected a privacy spell after the door closed behind him and toppled to his knees with a groan. He was amazed his jelly legs had been able to carry him this far, actually, but paid it no further mind when his hand finally snuck down his pants and grabbed hold of the hard line of his cock.

He exhaled a relieved, shaky breath and vanished his pants to a stool in the corner with a thought so as to be able to spread his legs better.

"Fuck, master," Barty groaned, hips rolling into his hand. "Beautiful, so fucking beautiful, fuuck..."

Truly, how could the universe conspire to gift him with this most perfect of... partners? A long moan escaped his lips at the thought that maybe, one day, he'd be allowed in even closer?

With the way his master always reacted to his touches, so appreciative and grateful, even, in his own way, Barty doubted anyone had ever been allowed as close to Lord Voldemort as he was. That thought, above all others, served to make his breath catch in his throat while he worked on his cock with oil-slick fingers.

To think the object of his affection was just next door, just out of his reach... Barty groaned anew, kneeling on the floor with his legs spread like a willing supplicant, ready to receive his master's communion. Strange that he should think of the religious knowledge he'd gained in Muggle Studies all those years ago but... was his master not his God?

Was his word not law? His touch not Barty's gospel?

"Die for you," he whispered into the semi-darkness around him, "live for you, everything for you..."

His torso dropped to the ground too, then, forehead pressed against the blessed tattoo on his arm in lieu of his master, and Barty found himself whimpering from overstimulation.

He was panting hard by the time his hips began to stutter, and when release finally washed over him, his master's name was on his lips like a prayer.

After the aftershocks had subsided, Barty wearily pushed himself up and walked over to the sink. He looked flushed and spent, and his hair was a mess of blonde curls hanging in his forehead.

Grinning a little at his thoroughly shagged look, he washed his face and his body and put his pants back on before stumbling out into the bedroom.

He didn't look at his master because he felt... too much, probably, and when he crawled into bed, he curled up into a tight ball with his back to his master.

Gods, how much of an overstimulated ball of nerves could one servant be? Barty forced himself to take deep breaths and closed his eyes tightly.

  


He perhaps should not have done it. But the thought was far too tempting, so Voldemort casually waved away the privacy ward Barty had put up as if it were so much smoke in the air, and tuned into Barty’s Dark Mark to listen in more accurately than the wall’s muffling could provide. He wasn’t altogether certain why he wanted to listen – why he was so fascinated. He wouldn’t normally be fascinated by another’s sexual desires, be it for him or for anyone else. His default response had usually been to ignore it – to curse if any of them became too falsely entitled to him. Yet, now…

He rolled over, intending merely to stand and put his clothing back on. But he had gotten no farther than tugging the tunic back over his chest when from the bathroom Barty _moaned_ , and Voldemort’s loins abruptly reminded him that they were still aching from the massage, and had not abated. The wet feeling between his legs renewed, and he frowned, still uncertain what was going on with that.

Well, Voldemort thought. Barty was still occupied.

Carefully, he peeled off his pants. The fabric was actually wet. He frowned at that, as well, and then tossed it to the floor in his wardrobe. Barty moaned again – his pelvis twinged again.

“ _fuck, master_ …” he heard through the Mark, and without quite meaning to, his hand slid down his stomach to slip into himself. The scales down there were wet, and when he probed inside further, he found with surprise that he was the source of the wetness – for the inside of the shaft was wetter and slicker than he’d ever felt it before. More sensitive, too, Voldemort thought with a gasp and shudder as he touched the inner ribbing. The reactive areas were already swollen and spongy, and he fell easily into a rhythm of stroking, unmindful of the slick getting all over his fingers.

In the bathroom Barty was whispering frantically, voice husky and deep, in words of death and devotion and submission. The heat grew almost in time with those whispers, and Voldemort’s fingers stuttered in their rhythm more than once as aborted half-climaxes shuddered through him. Finally, in time with a long, whimpered moan from the bathroom, he was able to finish – the heat finally burst out from his gut, his pelvis clenched so tightly that his own fingers were trapped within him for a moment. His spine arched, and then collapsed again. For a moment he lay there unmoving – more like unwilling to move – with his hand still partly within him, and listened to Barty’s continued panting from the bathroom. A moment later he removed his fingers, wandlessly wishing them clean, and then lay back again.

Eventually, though, Barty’s breathing began to grow ragged. Voldemort didn’t fancy the idea of being found in post-orgasmic bliss, so, with slightly wobbly legs, he stumbled upright and pulled the leggings of his sleeping pants on. A wave of his hand banished the soaked pants to the laundry basket, and he sent a second cleaning charm at the sheets before collapsing bonelessly onto the mattress.

  


Barty didn't know how long he'd lain there, blissed out, bone-tired and utterly spent, when a warm weight collided with his back.

"Master," he whispered softly, happy as could be. He shuffled back against the broad chest and held the arm that was draped over his waist tightly to himself.

He quickly fell asleep like that, tired as he was, and for once, he didn't dream of a dark island in the middle of the sea and of everyone passing and seeing through him as if he didn't exist.

Instead, he was sitting on a beach, and there was someone else between whose legs he was sitting and whose chest he was leaning against. The legs were scaley and warm and pale and Barty let his hands wander over their ribbed texture with glee.

  


In the morning, Voldemort woke to hair tickling his lower face, and to the smell of salt and musk in his nostrils. He blinked muzzily, and recognised from the lack of light that it was not yet dawn. Far too early, then, to even think about getting out of bed.

There was a warm body loose and limp in his arms – Barty, he realised after another moment of post-sleep confusion. The moment of panic that he was waiting for, so that he could press it away, did not come, and this was a bit more confusing. Instead he merely felt loose and relaxed, and continued to feel that way, without any anxiety intruding. The hair that his face was pressed to was soft – the boy's body was warm. He found, oddly, that he wasn't looking forward to letting go.

He didn't, for the moment. Barty wasn't awake, after all, and Voldemort had already decided that he wasn't moving. Instead, he carefully pressed his nose a bit closer to the boy's hair, taking in a long, sighing breath. His servant smelled like sand, salt, and sweat – the ocean – and a bit of muskiness atop his particular human smell, which Voldemort supposed might have been because he had had a wank last night.

Ah. Yes. He'd been listening to that, he remembered now, and wondered once more, with the clarity of distance, why he'd been so entranced by the sounds of Barty losing his composure. Thinking on it again sent a shudder up his spine, and he frowned.

Lord Voldemort had never been interested in sex, not even with himself. He had, he remembered, experimented with masturbation as a teenager, wondering why everyone around him was acting so insane about it all. He'd found no answers that satisfied him, and he hadn't really enjoyed the idea of the fluids involved, so he had stopped bothering with anything sexual, and no urge had ever bothered him again.

Until now.

He wondered what it was that had him experiencing the urge now, of all times. Perhaps a side effect of the resurrection, he thought. Yet, then again… was it possible that it had something to do with Barty?

He wondered about that for a while more, subconsciously clutching the boy closer to his body and soaking up the human contact (he never wanted to touch people before, either) until the sun had risen some degrees into the sky, and the boy finally stirred. Voldemort didn’t take his arms away, nor move his face from where he had pressed it to Barty’s skull.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

  


Truly, had anyone ever slept as well as him?

When the sun finally stole him from the realm of dreams, Barty burrowed instinctively closer to the solid heat pressing into his back. The realisation of what, _who_ , exactly provided him with much-needed contact, came just a second before –

"Good morning," Barty heard his master murmur into his hair. The man's breath was soft, yet he could feel the warm puffs of air on his scalp...

For a solid minute or two, Barty merely soaked it in, sighing and gently stroking the arm still holding onto him.

Then, he turned around and hugged his master fiercely around the middle. His head fit perfectly beneath the man's chin and the warm scales against his skin, where they were not covered with pesky clothing, felt amazing against him.

"It's the best morning," he agreed, still drowsy from sleep. "Did you sleep well? Sorry for just collapsing like this but... yeah. Sorry. Anyway. Shall I go make breakfast? Or can I stay a little longer?"

_Can I please never leave?_

  


Voldemort stiffened when Barty moved to turn and place his arms around his waist – but it was the stiffening of a second, driven by surprise at sudden motion, and it passed away without his even having to force it to go. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised by another new and yet enjoyable sensation – that of hair pressed to his neck, and a voice whispering against the hollow of his collarbones.

"Hmm," he hummed. Carefully, he brought a hand up to run his fingers through Barty's hair. "I am not yet hungry," he said. "Stay."

  


Feeling his master's humming reverberating against his chest through the man's rib cage was a pleasure Barty hadn't even known existed and he'd just planned to comment on how nice it felt when he found himself with a hand in his hair.

He practically melted against the man and found himself whimpering almost pitifully.

"I'm... I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he explained while little shivers of pleasure washed down his spine, "I just really like it when you... play with my hair, I guess."

He dared entangle their legs together and boldly started to run his fingernails over his master's back. He'd never used the nails before, he thought, and supposed it might feel nice against the scales.

  


It was strange, how Barty reacted so much to having his hair touched. Voldemort wondered if it had always been so, and if he was only now noticing it.

Then came the fingernails scoring lightly over his back through the tunic, and he sighed again. It was nice, he decided. Holding somebody else was... very nice.

  


* * *

  


The next three weeks were incredibly busy. Lord Voldemort's return was well-known in the underworld of Magical Britain at that point and there was a steady stream of supplicants demanding audience in this or that Lord's residence.

Right after the resurrection, Barty had had to stay home often to ensure his continued healing but thanks to the nutrient and medicinal potion, exercise and good food, he'd been cleared for duty by the (irritating, _prodding_ ) healer in Rittic Alley.

With a frown, Barty remembered the healer talking about him with his master as if he hadn't been in the room. It had felt... infantilising somehow but at the same time he'd been honoured that his master was so personally invested in his full recovery. So he'd taken the first three awful-tasting doses, with his ears burning red, under the watchful eye of the healer and the expectant gaze of his master.

Satisfied with his progress, Barty ended the Transfiguration and put the pebbles back into the bottomless pouch he'd persuaded (begged) his master into buying for him. It had only cost him one full-body massage he'd have gladly given either way.

While he was walking back towards the cottage to get started on dinner, he mused about the fact that they'd even agreed on a kind of... salary for him which Barty felt kind of weird about. He'd have stayed on without payment, and happily, but when his master had jokingly called it his pocket money, he'd finally acquiesced with red ears.

After he'd gotten back, he got some water boiling for pasta and a pan hot for a salmon dish he wanted to prepare. While he cooked, he surreptitiously checked the time and wondered whether (hoped that) Lord Voldemort was going to be punctual.

  


Voldemort apparated to the top of the path in a swirl of dark robes. Glamoured shadows fell off of him and curled across the ground for a few moments before dispersing as he flung his hood back and strode down the path. Lord Simons had been irritating even in the 1970s, and to Voldemort's great dismay, he had only gotten more entitled as more time had passed. He was ready to curse the next human he saw, just to release his own irritation.

Well, no, he corrected himself as he entered the safehouse and Barty's face peeked around the corner from the kitchen. Perhaps the second human he saw.

There was already food on the table. Voldemort supposed he might be allowing himself to become spoiled by it – but that didn't stop him from sitting down immediately in his usual chair and stowing his wand away in his sleeves. "Barty, make a note," he said idly as he waited to be served. "When I am in power, Lord Simons is losing all of his precious gilded furniture, in a fashion most traumatic."

  


Barty made a big show of getting his notebook out of his bottomless pouch and making a note with an everlasting quill he fished out afterwards.

"Duly noted," he winked and released the stasis spell from their meal. "I finished _Titanifors_ today, by the way. Works like a charm! But it's a Transfiguration, of course. No one should be able to break through a big slab of titanium that easily. Maybe we can use that spell to flatten all of Simons' stuff."

Barty was pretty stoked with his spellcrafting while he was eating and imagined hitting the irritating Lord into the face with a load of metal.

"What's on the agenda for the evening, master? Would you like a foot massage while you read?"

  


Voldemort listened to Barty chattering about his pet spell (newly successful, apparently) with a strange contentment stirring at his heart. The irritation brought on by Lord Simons fell away faster than he would usually expect his irritation to fall, leaving Voldemort merely feeling tired and ready to relax.

"I should hope so," he said in reply to Barty's question. "Perhaps you could pay some mind to my shoulders as well."

  


He read yet another book on ritual side effects while Barty worked on his feet after dinner. The library might require an expansion soon, Voldemort mused, glancing at the large number of books he had acquired since the beginning of the summer. He thought he was close to some sort of breakthrough regarding his physical appearance, all things considered, and a part of him was looking forward to having hair on his head again.

He placed the book down when Barty began on his shoulders, and allowed his head to loll back as the tension left him. He did so enjoy Barty's fingers... the boy was good at his massages, among other skills.

The thought of fingers had Voldemort thinking of something else that had haunted him for a while.

For the past few weeks he had found himself... curious, he supposed. Curious about what sex with another actually felt like. About a week back Barty had given him another full-body massage, and Voldemort had once more found himself growing slick between his legs. (Interesting how that happened now.) Again he had eavesdropped on Barty, and again he had taken care of himself at the same time – but this time, his mind had conjured more vivid images. The hands inside of him hadn't belonged to him at all. He had even caught himself wondering, as he had approached his climax, whether or not his new anatomy could fit a cock inside of it. And yet that thought had not been disturbing. If anything it had been...

... Interesting.

Barty wanted his Lord. But did he want Barty? He had thought not, but...

... Perhaps he did.

  


Barty was lounging against the back of his master's armchair while he massaged the strong shoulders. Lord Voldemort had been almost frightfully thin after his resurrection, but the man had taken such good care of his body since then that he looked like someone wholly new.

And, if the books he was reading from time to time were any indication, there might even be some actual body modification about to happen. He'd known Wormy would fuck it up!

He hadn't asked about it since he wasn't one to pry into his master's business but the signs were all pointing to that one conclusion.

Currently though, committing his master's relaxed posture to memory was taking up roughly 90% of his available brain cells.

Barty drew the contact out as long as he could – his master could certainly use some relaxation after such a day! – but ultimately stepped back and shook out his hands.

"There, all better," he smiled softly and set to packing his things away since it was getting late.

  


Voldemort opened his eyes with reluctance when the hands finally drew away from his shoulders. He felt loose and boneless, and so relaxed that he could fall asleep here and now. But he also felt that same curiosity which had been plaguing him throughout the massage, and which had not lessened.

He stood, rolled his shoulders, and went to find Nagini. She was lounging on one of the couches in the sitting room, and Voldemort informed her briefly that he was going to sleep before heading into the bedroom and divesting himself of his over-robe.

The thought struck him once more as he was pulling on the leggings that he usually slept in. This time, he couldn't manage to put it away before he had moved to wondering what Barty's cock looked like – which was certainly not something Voldemort had ever thought before, about anybody.

He'd told Barty he didn't desire relationships. Surely he shouldn't lead him on? Wasn't that behavior looked down upon? Yet on the other hand Voldemort didn't care for social norms – but he did not wish to damage his servant's loyalty, either...

If he allowed Barty to truly have sexual contact with him, Voldemort knew, _something_ would change. But he did not know with certainty what that change would be – how it would look. And then again, there was the fact that Barty didn't even know Lord Voldemort no longer had a cock...

He was still standing by the balcony, staring pensively out the window with his fingers pressed to his lips, when he heard the door opening behind him.

  


After righting the library following his master's departure, Barty spelled all the lights out downstairs and set out a pan and some dishes for breakfast before following his master up the stairs.

Lord Voldemort looked like he was brooding over the universe's greatest mysteries again, silhouetted by the light of the setting sun shining in from outside as he was.

No longer particularly body shy around his master, Barty shucked off his loose robes, stripped down to his pants and grabbed a fresh cotton shirt from his wardrobe before joining his master at the threshold towards the balcony.

He thoroughly enjoyed having to look up to the man so much when they were standing. Lord Voldemort was truly magnificent, in every sense of the word.

"Are you alright? Still mad about that Simons guy maybe? Would you like me to kill him tomorrow?"

  


Voldemort felt his lips curling up slightly at the offer of murder, made so easily and freely. The pensive mood receded somewhat. "No," he said softly. "He is a mere mayfly to me. Perhaps you can kill him in a few years."

(Barty makes you smile, too, his treacherous brain said to him. How rare is that?)

Smoothly he pivoted on his heel, to look directly down on the boy. Barty was no longer terribly emaciated and hollow-looking to the eye. His cheekbones were properly padded, and muscle tone had begun to return to him now that they were training and he had been to a healer a few times. Voldemort enjoyed seeing that proof, of how well he cared for those servants who were loyal to him. The boy's skin was more golden than it had been from time spent in the summer sun – his blonde hair had been slightly bleached by that same light, but it appeared far healthier and less lank than it had been.

He could do much worse, Voldemort decided vaguely. But then again, he had never really cared for looks so much. The devotion in Barty's eyes whenever he looked upon Voldemort was so much more enticing than any attractive physical appearance could have been.

"Tell me, Barty," he said slowly. "I am not wrong that you have desired me sexually for a long time, and still do?"

  


That question felt like a punch to the gut.

Barty refrained from staggering though and merely looked down at his feet with his cheeks burning red. Was that a rhetorical question? How could it not be? Barty had been... more than blatantly obvious in his displays of devotion and affection, had he not?

But still – to be asked so directly, so... brazenly...!

"I have," he answered, voice even more shaky than he'd have expected.

In an effort to steel his nerves and show his master the truth, even if it was painful, he looked up into those brilliant, red eyes. That intelligent, scrutinising gaze he always enjoyed getting attention from made him nervous now and Barty played with the thin cotton shirt he still held in his hands.

The breeze on his naked chest was nice. Maybe he should go swimming one day soon... No, enough distractions.

"And I still do – of course I still do. How could I not? You're my master, my Lord, my... my everything!"

The desire to sink to his knees and kiss his master's feet was incredibly strong by then, but Barty held steadfast and kept returning that piercing gaze.

  


It was curious how things could look so different in certain moods. Voldemort had long made a habit of studying human faces, trying to understand the hints of lying, the micro-expressions that would tell the truth of how a person felt even as their voice told a different story. But rather than deciphering Barty's truth, instead his eyes fixated on the spread of the blush across the boy's cheeks, and tried to tell him that it was endearing to see that reaction. The eyes that looked into his were bright, the pupils wide and dark.

He wasn't lying. Not that Voldemort had thought he was. It was merely –

He had needed to check.

"It is a curious thing," he said, taken by a strange mood of whimsy. "I cannot say I understand why you would feel so, but you do not lie. I do appreciate it when I am not lied to."

He reached down to take the cotton shirt from Barty's hands. It felt freshly laundered – he was taken by a mad urge to smell it, but resisted. He could merely hand it back now – could tell Barty to finish preparing for bed and move to the mattress itself, and merely content himself with holding the boy through the night.

He did hand it back, even laying it over one of the boy's shoulders for him. But then he reached down farther once the boy had struggled into it, taking one of the thin wrists in hand.

"You say these things," he said musingly, not quite sure he believed that he was truly going to follow the impulse that was forming in his mind. "You are aware that the resurrection ritual altered me in certain ways," he went on – and before he could second-guess himself, he moved Barty's hand so that it pressed between Voldemort's legs, where there would not be what the boy expected to find. "Do you still?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon™. – Kit


	9. We'll Figure Something Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S TIME. – Kit

Barty liked it whenever his master was in a mood that made him talk like this. Strange and beautiful sequences of words that sounded lyrical to Barty's ears.

The man sounded like the grand kings and elves in the heroic stories he'd read when he'd been a child, always wishing to be the tale's hero the noble lords bestowed their admiration on. And now here he was, Lord Voldemort looking down at him like _this_.

Once his master's gaze had turned from assessing to searching, probing even, Barty felt more naked than he already was and was almost glad to be able to put his shirt on with fumbling fingers.

But then, that insistent tug on his wrist. Barty's arm became wax immediately and followed the trajectory his master led him on, all the way towards— surely not?

He squeaked a little in surprise when his master's hand _actually pressed Barty's hand into his crotch_.

Something important inside of him grew impossibly bigger. He thought it might have been his heart...

His fingers twitched where they were pressed between his master's legs and he understood the books about ritual side effects and his master's incessant shyness right in that second. Not a cock, then. Not female genitalia either, Barty concluded, since even though he'd never touched a female's genitalia in his life he knew enough about anatomy to know that this was not it.

So what -- aah. The scales, the eyes... surely something reptilian? Interesting! He wondered how it worked and realised in the same instant he didn't know _nearly_ enough about snake anatomy to know—

_His master was waiting for an answer._

"Yes!" he answered quickly, enthusiastically nodding his head. "I'm just - I think I'll be really out of my depth but..."

He dared move his fingers a little, probing, and gods, was there an actual opening? Even though he couldn't know for sure yet, Barty's brain quickly rewired itself from wanting to be _taken_ and _filled_ to wanting to _fill_ and _give pleasure_.

"Gods, yes... I want _you_ , master, not your cock or, or whatever this beauty between your legs is. I'll figure something out, _we'll_ figure something out..!" he promised in a dark voice he wasn't used to from himself. The one that only seemed to come out when his arousal was so all-encompassing that he needed, _needed_ , some kind of valve to let it out.

By then, he couldn't – didn't want to! – stop his fingers from rubbing some more. Feeling, probing – finally allowed where they'd wanted to be for ages.

"Please let me figure something out, master, I want to make you feel so fucking good, please..."

The boy squeaked, first. Voldemort chose to believe that it was shock at being allowed to _touch_ , not dismay at the lack of anything. Fortunately the wide eyes and the slack facial muscles spoke to disbelief just a bit more than shock. After a few moments, the boy's jaw tightened again, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. There was a twitch of the fingers that Voldemort was holding against himself, and Voldemort, somehow, _felt_ himself reacting, opening up a bit in response. How he could feel that without looking – Well, he had other things to think about right now.

The boy's eyes widened again – some kind of realization. But before Voldemort could speculate on the nature of it, words were falling from Barty's mouth, and he _nodded_.

Strangely, Voldemort relaxed. He hadn't even realized that he was tense.

He still wasn't certain if he would be able to take that metaphorical step forward, until Barty spoke again. Voldemort had heard many people begging him for sex before. This was still begging, he knew, yet – it was different. No 'you look so good', but 'I want to make you _feel good_ '...

The boy was still moving his fingers. Voldemort felt the muscles in his pelvis flexing instinctively as Barty barely skimmed the slit where it had opened. With leggings on of course nothing much happened – but Voldemort still felt the probe with the same force as his week-old fantasy of having fingers inside of him.

Well.

Fuck it.

He was tired of not doing what he wanted. Wasn't that, hadn't that always been the point of becoming a Dark Lord – so that he could do whatever he wanted?

Voldemort pulled Barty's hand away, keeping his grip on the wrist, and pushed the boy back until he had his servant against the wall. He pinned the hand he had in his hand – with his other he reached up to caress the side of Barty's face, to touch his hair, and ensured that the boy was looking at him.

"If I allow you to lie with me," he murmured, "you will be sworn to secrecy. You may never speak of it to anyone without my permission, for I am a very private person, Barty." Perhaps he would even finish that work he'd begun in 1980 but never finished, intended to allow the Mark to combat Veritaserum... but he did not say this aloud. "And I am in charge," he continued. "You obey me in all ways, as you do in everything else. Those are my requirements."

Requirements for...

Barty felt his vision go white and, for the shortest yet longest time, he felt like he was going to faint immediately.

"You want to... you want... me?"

He felt stupid, questioning his master this way when the man had made it very clear what exactly it was he wanted. And how.

"You're in charge of my everything, master," Barty promised, voice breathless, "always have been. Always will be. I... I will gladly swear any vow you might require."

Finally, his body was catching on, too, and he felt heat pooling in his gut. Not wanting to – what, scare Lord Voldemort away? – he slightly hunched over and pressed his head into the hand holding onto his face.

"I don't think anyone has ever been quite as honoured as I'm honoured today, master," he said with a far-away expression, trying to rein in his own arousal while simultaneously itching to touch with the hand not – gods! – restrained against the wall.

His breath hitched as his thoughts fell over themselves and he decided to raise his hand after all, hovering in front of Lord Voldemort before grabbing the man's shoulder. Shoulders were safe. He was allowed to touch the shoulders.

"Please tell me what you want me to do, I swear I will obey you in everything. Just please, have mercy and _let me touch you!_ "

Voldemort watched with some awe as Barty appeared to hover on the verge of some sort of swoon. But he recovered without intervention, and moved to vows and oaths, the same words of submission that Voldemort had always been so fond of.

The Dark Lord became uncomfortably aware that he had no idea how things went from here.

Then again, Voldemort told himself, he was the Dark Lord. He was the master of his own destiny and nobody else could possibly be the master of him. Whatever he decided he wanted was what would happen.

People kissed when they had sex, did they not? He had never kissed anyone before, but he felt he might be interested in the idea now.

"Very well," Voldemort breathed, and tilted Barty's head up to press their lips together. He did not linger overly long, intending to only get a taste of the sensations involved, which were – it turned out – pleasant enough. But he would prefer some attention lower down his body, he decided. So he broke the kiss and instead picked Barty up by the waist to bring him to the bed. With a careful touch he slid a hand beneath Barty's shirt, getting a feel for the shape of the boy.

"You mentioned figuring things out," he said, almost conversationally. Strangely, he felt no rush of blood to his cheeks – perhaps it was all going somewhere else. "I am not aware if my current state would allow for a cock, but if that is not an option, then fingers very much are."

They were both quiet after Barty's declaration, and he felt like his ragged breathing was obscenely loud. His master was, as always, a calm, steady presence he could rely on and Barty had just decided to follow the man's example and _get a grip_ when his head was tilted upwards and there was –

Warm lips touched his own and all the air seemed to flee his lungs. A kiss? His first kiss - his master? Despite his confusion at the break-neck speed he was experiencing, Barty tried to follow his master's lips in vain when they departed.

He was about to maybe beg a little to get them back when he was bodily picked up and carried toward the bed like a rag doll. That alone, being manhandled and _used_ by his master, would have been enough to fuel a thousand fantasies but the hand under his shirt finally made him sag forward and rest his head against Lord Voldemort's chest with a groan.

"I'm... slightly overwhelmed, master," he admitted, hesitated and then -- hugged the man fiercely to himself. "Please rest assured it's everything I've ever wanted but I can't even begin to... to think about filling you up like this, holy fuck."

He shivered against his master and realised too late that in his state, with the both of them pressed together like this, his master would be able to feel his arousal against his thigh. He tried his hardest not to _move_ and _seek friction_ but at the same time he didn't pull away either.

"How about we... we start by me giving you a massage, but this time, you're lying on your back?," Barty suggested, letting his hands roam over his master's back. "That's... familiar. We can do massages."

Voldemort hummed as Barty embraced him, curling his fingers against the boy's skin. The sudden reticence almost didn't make sense – but Voldemort found he liked that, far more than he would have liked continual excitement. The boy was shivering in his arms, and seemed as outwardly uncertain as Lord Voldemort felt inside – admittedly, the reasons might be different. But he could not see how that mattered much.

(In the back of his mind, he noticed a hardness pressing against his thigh where Barty's legs wrapped around him, and a part of him that he had never paid much attention to dearly hoped that it _would_ fit.)

"I would, perhaps in other circumstances, make an amused comment about how you only recently gave me a massage," he said, propping himself up one hand and slowly disentangling their legs. "But I feel I would enjoy that. Do you need to go retrieve anything?"

"Ah, I don't think so," Barty grinned, more confident again now that they were in well-known waters. "I don't want to risk you reacting to whatever's in the oil. Not all of them are for... internal use."

He blushed furiously at the last part.

"Well, you are going to need to take off some of your clothes," Barty decided. "Here, I'll start." Surer now than when he'd put it on, Barty sat up and took off his shirt once more, vanishing it across the room with a thought.

When he looked back towards his master again, he couldn't help but sigh at the soft look directed towards him and put his hand reverently on Lord Voldemort's cheek with a sappy smile.

"You're beautiful like this, did you know that? All glowing, and earnest and... so, so powerful."

"Some? Not all?" Voldemort asked, being sure to inject enough wryness into his tone so that Barty would recognise it as the joke it was. He folded his legs beneath him and watched with interest as Barty divested himself of his tunic once more, revealing that same tanned, lightly muscled body. ( _Mine_ , he thought.)

Whatever possessiveness had entered his eyes, Barty seemed to like it. The boy touched his cheek – a gesture which Voldemort only allowed because he saw Barty coming, and he knew that his servant would not – what, he asked himself. Would not hurt him?

He shifted, thumbing the hem of his own tunic where it lay against his thighs. Compared to Barty he was still quite clothed – only light summer clothes, but still they felt thick and hot against him at this moment.

Carefully, he reached out and took Barty's chin once more. "You are... in somewhat of a minority, don't you know?" he said. "Many people have called me handsome in ignorance and then turned to terror when I act as myself." He tilted his head to the side, still thinking. "Sometimes, Barty, you bewilder me. Yet I find it a pleasant bewilderment all the same."

He leaned down again, to kiss once more, and did not pull away as quickly this time.

"I think I might fall apart if you were to take it all off at once," Barty admitted sheepishly.

They were late to bed, today, and the sun had already set below the rolling waves in the distance. Dusk was throwing his master's aristocratic face into sharp relief against the dim light of the bedroom and the naked _want_ Barty saw reflected in them sent a shiver of delight down his back.

Lord Voldemort admitting that Barty was different, special even, gladdened his heart and he nodded eagerly. He wouldn't be too vain to acknowledge that other people might be able to understand his master the way he did as well, in time, but he was assured in the knowledge that at this moment, he was the only one close to him.

At least this degree and quality of closeness, he supposed, and Barty might have offered his thanks for Lord Voldemort's trust in him but then all thought vanished when the man leaned forward and kissed him again.

Instead of using words, Barty elected to show his devotion with his body instead. He boldly leaned into the kiss and used his lips on his master's own much like he used his fingers on the man's body.

It felt easy and... right, somehow, to be close to his master like this. A deep visceral longing inside him was finally settling down and left only a warm glow behind that seemed to buzz under his skin. The buzzing was worse where his master's warm touch held him and Barty pressed closer into the hand on his face.

When they parted, he was panting hard and looked into Lord Voldemort's face with a satisfied, lopsided smile.

"You taste so good, I can't believe you fucking _kissed me_ ," Barty giggled breathlessly and hid his face in his hands. "Please take that shirt off, I swear I'm gonna make you feel so good, I swear it."

He was babbling again, he knew, but there was entirely too much adrenaline coursing through his body and he was not ashamed to admit that he was desperate to touch his master.

People had tastes? How interesting. Voldemort didn't comment on this, though, and instead contemplated how all the hesitancy and uncertainty, the strange and usually unwelcome coiling sensation in his stomach, had by now washed entirely away. He felt strangely light – perhaps a bit surreal, as if he were having a dream. He knew he was not, of course, but his mind conjured that unreal sense all the same.

"Bold of you to think to command me," he said, still with the wry, indulgent tone, even as he obliged and slid the tunic from his body. A thought and a minor burst of magic sent it to his wardrobe.

"On my back, you say?" he asked even as he lay down in the requested position. "What difference does this make?"

"I'm not an expert, but I have the feeling you're gonna like this even more," Barty grinned, still reeling from his master making actual jokes. Two of them! In the span of minutes.

Barty wasted no time and got started immediately. He knelt next to Lord Voldemort's hips and splayed his hands on the man's chest. His broad, long, defined chest, smooth scales seeming to glow from within with an unearthly glow.

Massaging the pectoral muscles and moving up toward the shoulders felt, somehow, even more intimate than the other full-body massages had felt. Maybe it was due to the fact that he could see his master's face -- maybe it was because his master could see _him!_

Barty's hands moved up and down Lord Voldemort's sides with steady movements before exerting gentle, almost-but-not-quite teasing pressure on his stomach.

"In a perfect world, this is where you'd get rid of the trousers," Barty whispered, mindful of his wording this time because even though his master had only joked earlier, he didn't feel like pushing his luck.

To illustrate why his request was of the utmost importance, Barty started massaging the strong thighs through the fabric.

It was inordinately strange to have his chest touched. Voldemort wondered whether anyone had ever touched him here – even himself. Never, he thought, other than when he had to clean his body in a bath or a shower. It was far more impactful to have another's hands on him, and he felt again that odd warmth – almost a heat – where Barty touched him. He realised with irritation that he wasn't certain where to look, so he experimented with different places – Barty's shoulders, the muscles moving under his skin – Barty's flushed, giddy face – Barty's stomach, or...

The boy's pants were tented rather dramatically. Voldemort fought back the urge to rip his gaze away abruptly, and instead allowed it to slide, almost naturally, back to Barty's face, even as he considered again whether or not – and how that might feel, if it did –

The hands left his shoulders and nearly stroked down his sides. Together with the few faint presses against his stomach, Voldemort felt again that rushing, wet feeling between his legs that he had come to associate with massages on the bed. His legs wanted to curl up towards his chest of their own accord. It was a reflex he'd never felt before, but given Barty's request (so carefully worded, Voldemort thought with an amused smirk) he allowed them to come partly up. He reached down and shuffled the leggings down over his hips and out from under him.

"You may do the rest," he said to Barty, indicating with a hand. "I care not where you put them."

Forgoing magic entirely, Barty threw the soft trousers behind him and drew in a huge, shaky breath when his master was laid out in the bed before him all enticingly.

"You're so bloody gorgeous like this you have no idea," he pressed out between gritted teeth and put one of his hands on a naked thigh. "Ooh, you're _doing_ things to me, master..."

Cautiously, Barty started massaging the thigh nearest to him from the knee upwards. When his fingertips just barely slipped under the silk pants on their way up, there was a nervous yet playful smile playing on his face.

Next, the scales on the inside of his master's thigh received their due attention and when Barty let his gaze wander over his master's semi-naked form, an almost desperate moan tore from his throat when he became aware that there was a faint sheen of wetness sitting between the man's legs.

Letting his eyes fall closed, Barty hummed contently and opened them again when his mind was made up.

"May I kneel between your legs to reach both of your thighs at once, master? I think you'd really enjoy that..."

_You keep saying that_ , Voldemort almost replied, as Barty called him 'gorgeous'. He kept it in – uncertain of what he meant by it, and very certain it did not fit the mood at all. The ministrations continued on his thigh muscles, and he sighed a moment as he enjoyed the sensation. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and that same heat pooled again in his stomach and seeped into his loins. He was relatively certain, now, that the pants he still wore likely reflected the wetness – they were dark silk, but the light would reveal it.

He wanted to take them off, he thought suddenly, and a shiver – but not one of wariness – traveled up his spine at the thought. Almost at the same time Barty gave a moan, faint but more than audible in the silence of the room, and then fell to humming. Voldemort opened his eyes, wondered why he'd left them closed for so long, and felt unutterably strange.

Barty's request sent another twinge through him, and he abruptly felt certainty aligning in him as to what the boy intended. Languidly – moving felt somehow different than it usually would – Voldemort lifted up a hand to rub at one of his eyes.

"You may," he hummed. A thought sparked through him again, but this time, he gave in to the impulse. "Good boy, for asking."

"I'm always good when it's you," Barty replied with a wink and almost shyly ducked his head at his own boldness.

His master had called him a _good boy_. He couldn't even fully work through the implications of that without feeling like his heart was overflowing so he pushed it aside to be studied further when he was... less engaged.

To keep his mind otherwise occupied, he crawled over his master's leg and, finding not quite as much space there as he'd hoped, draped the man's thighs over his own as he knelt down.

He put one hand each on the thighs and exerted firm pressure starting from the knee up to the tantalising, mocking pants. Part of him wanted them gone immediately but the other enjoyed how forbidden, how hidden, it made what laid behind them seem.

Barty kept his steady, firm caresses up for a while before changing his angles and pressing on some of the new pressure points he could reach from this position.

"Mhh," he sighed, calming his hips that were threatening to roll, to seek friction. But, he reminded himself firmly, this wasn't about him at the moment. He would have plenty of time, and lovely, lovely visuals, to take care of himself in the bathroom afterwards. "Told you lying on your back would be nicer. Do you... want more? Because I'd be happy, honoured even, to give it."

For a moment, once again, Voldemort worried that Barty might swoon. (Was it really possible to be that attracted to somebody? What fun, he thought.)

The attention being given to his legs soon returned, however, and Voldemort allowed himself another sigh. The touches against his inner thighs were soft, almost hesitant, at first, but soon became firmer and more pointed. Between his legs, he felt again that strange and new sensation that meant wetness and heat, and his pelvis threatened to clench in need. ( _Need_. Since when was he, Lord Voldemort, a sexual being, he thought – but pressed it aside.)

If Barty had not offered then, Voldemort might have simply ordered him to shift his focus regardless.

But then, too, a thought occurred to him as he propped himself back up on an elbow. He glanced at Barty (at his pelvis, first, but then forced himself to look up at the boy's face) and hummed. "I am not averse," he said. Without his really willing it to do so, the hand unoccupied with holding him up began to creep towards the waistband of his pants. "But some experimentation may be necessary... do you require instruction in how it is put together?"

Barty's caresses petered out as he watched his master's hand travel down towards his pants. He was completely mesmerised and forced his mouth closed where it had been hanging open.

"I'm good with experimenting," he whispered hoarsely, fingers twitching where they were still holding onto his master's thighs. "I'm good with improvising, too."

A thought plagued him then. If his master was able to give instructions on how to, to... well, he must have tested it himself, didn't he?

Barty found himself making a helpless sort of keening sound and pawed at the last piece of fabric separating him from salvation, the part of it surrounding his master's hips at least.

"Please let me try," he begged, pupils blown and gaze focused on the wet spot growing between Lord Voldemort's legs. "Mmh, may I use my mouth as well? I'd love to use my mouth on you, fuck, taste you, feel you, make you feel so fucking good. Please..!"

There was something altogether intoxicating about how wide Barty's pupils became as the boy stared down at Voldemort's hips. The intensity of that gaze directly on his loins made his skin tingle and crawl, but – in a good way. They were shivers of excited anticipation, not of anticipatory dread. The noises, too, that his servant was making – ! Voldemort had never thought himself much for noises, especially such needy ones, but somehow, the knowledge that they were directed at him in this case made them tolerable – wonderful, even.

When Barty placed a hand on his hip, he felt as though his flesh had been set aflame. And the boy's suggestions – Voldemort had not even thought about the possibilities of a mouth...

He still wanted to try the cock, too, just in case that _would_ fit. What to do, what to do...

Well, the first step to any of this would of course involve removing the fabric around his hips. Voldemort finished reaching down, and with a murmured hiss of Parseltongue, he vanished the pair of pants. (It wasn't really as though he needed to wear them all the time, anyway, and he had other pairs. It was worth the loss to not be required to move his legs from their current position.)

"Fingers first, I think," he said, and lay back again, spreading his legs a little wider now that he could do so. The summer air, though technically still warm at night, was nevertheless cool against the heat that was radiating from between his legs. Being nude felt _good_.

"As you command," Barty replied with a shaky voice and for all of a second, he managed to just stare until the twitching in his fingers became too intense for him to hold back.

His fingertips probed gently around the pink-ish, glistening skin surrounding the sensible, unobtrusive slit between his master's legs and Barty was delighted to slide through the wetness that had already formed there.

"Already feeling so good, are you," Barty murmured darkly, drawing little circles around the hot flesh with the pads of his thumbs. "Fuckk, if only you could see yourself..."

There was actual skin around the entrance, much as Barty had thought at first glance, and he let his fingers dance over the smallest of ridges separating skin from scales.

"Lovely, lovely, so very lovely," he whispered breathlessly and, with a surprised gasp on his part, the pad of his thumb slipped inside like it was nothing. "Hahah, oh fuck, bet that feels so good, doesn't it."

He wasn't asking, not really -- more lost in exploring the new anatomy and gauging his master's reactions to his ministrations. With a groan, he pulled the thumb out again and inserted both thumbs, very slowly, expecting internal resistance that never came.

"Mhh, so ready, so ready." Barty closed his eyes to commit the feeling to memory. Tight, but not too tight. Wet. Warm. Lovely little ridges his thumbs could stroke with delightful pressure. He pulled his thumbs almost completely out before pushing in again, very slowly and carefully, while exerting pressure against the ridges he was feeling during the simple thrust.

"Like this? Yeah? I think that's it.."

It felt even more electric than Voldemort could ever have anticipated for Barty to touch him between his legs. Sweet Morgana, he thought dully, trying to prevent his head from lolling back bonelessly and just _experiencing_. The light touches, even just against the outside of his body, were already shuddering up his spine, threatening to make his toes curl.

The first sensation of something foreign inside of him was nearly unbearable. Voldemort forced himself to stay silent, stomach muscles clenching slightly, as he listened to the smooth stream of babble from Barty's lips. His own fingers had felt so dramatic, and yet, these were somehow more.

He couldn't prevent himself from gasping when Barty pushed in again, this time with two fingers instead of one – thumbs? Were those thumbs? He wanted to prop himself up and look, but he didn't want to dislodge the boy or spook him by doing so. He stared instead at the ceiling, trying to keep his breathing steady even as the pads of Barty's thumbs stroked at those spongy places that always felt the most pleasure – as he dragged against them as he removed his fingers.

 _Fuck_ , Voldemort thought distantly. No wonder people liked sex –

Those same fingers pressed in once more, moving more firmly, pressing harder against the ridges. Voldemort clenched his teeth, trying to remain collected, composed. He thought for a moment that he would manage it. Then Barty flexed his fingers, digging against him before beginning to drag his thumbs out again, and Voldemort couldn't prevent his hips from bucking.

" _Nnsshh_ ," he heard himself groaning – it was half a hiss. He had slipped to Parseltongue without even meaning to or being aware of it. Normally he would be aware of it, wouldn't he? "Hah. Y-yes," he went on before he recaptured his tongue, and cursed himself for the stutter.

Forget fingers, he thought distantly. If this was what pressure felt like, he wanted something larger inside of him.

Barty almost lost the tentative rhythm he'd set up when his master made those sweet, sweet sounds but caught himself just in time and continued as he was doing.

"Mmhhh," he hummed, delighted, giddy, and... with an aching cock trapped in his pants.

While continuing to thrust inside of his master with purpose now, Barty felt his own hips bucking desperately. "Look, I'm gonna have to do something about my pants situation soon or I fear I'll actually fucking implode because you're so bloody gorgeous like this."

On a strange whim, Barty leaned his head to the left and started mouthing along the inside of his master's thigh after he'd said his piece. The scales were so fucking soft and warm and he felt the powerful muscles positively quivering every time he thrust inside.

"Do you think you can take more fingers? Gods, I'd love to find out.."

Most of Voldemort's attention had to go to keeping silent – he had no more to spare for keeping his breath steady. The feelings were more intense, _more_ , than he had expected – or had been able to achieve on his own. It was only the sensation of Barty's lips along the inside of his thigh that startled him out of his strange trance, and then, he caught the words the boy had spoken just before beginning that little trick.

"Ge' rid of 'em, then," he said thickly – lisping, he was _lisping_ , how long had it been since he had lisped? Since being a child – since long before Hogwarts. But wait. Barty couldn't take his hands away to take them off.

With effort, Voldemort lifted his upper back from the mattress and gestured to Barty's hips. " _Go_ ," he hissed in Parseltongue, and the pants went. Then his attention was drawn to the sight of himself – his own spread legs, and Barty's thumbs buried _inside him_ – paused for now. He frowned internally at the fingers, considering for a moment how many of his own fingers he had managed to get inside of himself that first time. He looked at Barty's pelvis – particularly the cock. He had seen cocks besides his own (old) one before, but never with the intention of assessing whether it would _fit_ , and he took a moment to work through this internal calculation – made unnecessarily difficult in the haze of _wanting_ that had fallen over his mind.

Pulling himself farther upright, he reached down for Barty's wrists and – a bit regretfully – tugged the boy's fingers from him. His loins protested the loss, but he sternly tried to tell them that hopefully there would be something better coming soon.

He released the boy's wrists and placed his palm flat against the boy's stomach. Despite sitting almost on his tailbone, Voldemort was amused to see that he was still taller than Barty when he held himself upright.

"I would," he said – managing to return to English, but unable to remove the hissing undertone – "rather have you inside me."

"I didn't mean the _actual pants themselves_ so much as – woah, okay, that works."

Barty grinned and tried to swallow against the sudden lump in his throat when his master half sat up -- looking down towards where they were connected and... mustering him.

His racing heart seemed to want to run away without him and time seemed to become slow and viscous while he was scrutinised so. Forbidden thoughts flickered through his mind, some good, some bad... did he like what he saw? What if he didn't? Oh, but what if he _did?_

Having his thumbs pulled from that delicious wet heat was fine when it meant having his wrists moved like this and Barty was almost sorry to lose the sensation, the restriction, that had come with it.

All rational thought flew out the window though when his master's hand rested right next to his cock and Barty started wondering if maybe... maybe....

He looked up and into Lord Voldemort's brilliant red eyes, clouded by lust and arousal, and wanted nothing more than to touch and hold and cherish.

He'd just started to reach for the strong chin when his master uttered those fateful words, and time seemed to fucking stop in that very instant.

He was wanted. He was wanted by his master, of all people, and they were both naked and flushed and nervous and so very good to each other.

That primal thing inside Barty that had started calming down the moment the man had kissed him the first time (had that really been just this evening and not eons ago?) was docile as a fed snake now and Barty felt his whole being relax.

"Anything you want," he purred, "anything at all. Just say the word and I'll do whatever you want."

Closing his eyes, he leaned forward and pressed his lips on his master's with pressure, intent, and his hands moved first to the man's shoulders before one moved further up to take hold of that handsome face.

"I'll give you every last inch, I swear, I swear it, I promise I'll make you feel so very good, even better than you're feeling now..."

He was gently pushing against his master's shoulder then, urging him to lie back down and _be worshipped_.

Barty was staring at him. Voldemort could see his eyes much better, now that he was closer – the blown pupils and the dazed look. He liked that look, quite a lot. Seeing it settled something inside of him, a distant part that was still unsure. Barty's kiss upon his own lips was delicate, and as he felt the touch against his shoulders and then against his cheek, he realized with a strange distance that the wet feeling on Barty's thumbs, pressing against his scales, was what had come from _him_.

He should have been incensed, that there were – bodily fluids – getting all over him. Yet he was not. All he could think of was the kiss, the frantic murmuring that Barty whispered to him with their faces pressed together. Every last inch, he thought in an echo to the boy's words, and felt his pelvis clenching in anticipation. Did the shaft even go deep enough for that? He had only thought for girth – but even if it did not.

The faint push against his shoulders was tempting. He wanted it. But another part of him rebelled at the lack of control that it would mean – even though he had all that magic in his blood, even though Barty would freeze utterly at a word from him. He satisfied the anxious part by reaching up to tug his servant's head back by the hair, pressing another kiss to his lips – rougher, this time. The anxious part soothed itself back to nothing, and Voldemort slowly, carefully, eased himself back down.

"Well?" he said, to cover his own nerves.

Barty moaned shamelessly when that beautiful, long-fingered hand pulled at his hair. That, coupled with a searing-hot kiss initiated by his master had him reeling.

And then, the image of Lord Voldemort, draped out before him in all his naked glory, did the rest to make him sure he was about to lose his mind.

"So very lovely," he repeated and leaned forward. His right elbow supported his weight next to his master's chest and his left hand gingerly stroked the wetness between the man's legs once more.

Carefully, he inserted three fingers and pumped them in and out when there was little resistance. When he was able to add a fourth finger easily as well, he hummed, content, and grabbed his cock.

"You just tell me if it hurts, yeah? Don't wanna hurt you, only want to... fuck, make this perfect for you." Barty's voice was the huskiest it had been yet, and when he used his hand to guide his cock through the wetness, his forehead dropped onto his master's shoulder.

With a shallow thrust of his hips, he buried the head of his cock inside of the inviting heat and gave a full-body shudder. It was delicious, and tight, and warm, and... for some sappy reason it felt like sliding home.

He pushed forward carefully until he was about half inside, pulled back out to only the tip and then thrust in again. This time, he went in easily and without quite having planned it that way, he was suddenly buried to the hilt in his master's opening with an almost-pained groan.

The ridges felt... fucking amazing with every micro movement Barty's hips did of their own accord and rational thought seemed folly when pleasure like this existed in the world. Barty released a shuddering moan. It felt like they were _made_ for each other.

Laboriously, he raised his head once more and looked up towards his master. Gosh, but the man was _tall_. "Please tell me you like this as much as I do because if I have to stop now, I might as well kill myself," he pressed out, only half-joking.

The boy kept calling him 'lovely'. 'Gorgeous'. Each occurrence of such a word served to bewilder Voldemort further. Yet he also could not pay attention to that now, occupied as he was with the sensation of Barty's fingers – not what he had desired, but pleasant all the time. He gave the boy a moment, wondering if perhaps his servant was testing how much give there might or might not be. For lack of anything better to do with his hands, for he didn't fancy the idea of them lying limp at his sides, he reached up to gently caress the backs of Barty's shoulders, palms resting against the skin without force.

The boy buried his face in Voldemort's shoulder, and –

_There._

The sensation was, curiously, one of stretching without any pain. It was very different from fingers, and for a moment Voldemort forgot about pleasure in favor of thinking very hard about what this looked like from Barty's perspective, and about how to quantify the feeling of fullness in a part of his body that he had never before realized was empty.

Then the thrusting, in and out, and the last of Voldemort's composure slipped away. A strangled hiss escaped his lips as he felt that pressure against his insides. He had been wrong. The pressure that Barty had been able to exert with his thumbs was well and good, but it was by necessity and the nature of thumbs localized. It could not compare to the constant sensation of pressure against every single part of him.

Their hips had pressed together while he reeled. Voldemort found that he was both surprised and ecstatic that it fit entirely within him – more ecstatic, now, as the realization washed over him, and the possibilities burst before his eyes like stars.

Barty was stirring. Voldemort wearily lifted his head to look more carefully at the boy, and without meaning to made eye contact.

" _More, yes, more_ ," he hissed – then realized the boy wouldn't understand him. Instead he crushed his lips against the boy's own, and bucked his hips so that they ground against Barty's, hoping that would be enough to convey his intent. He wasn't certain he could speak English without a long moment to gather himself.

He couldn't understand Parseltongue, but the intent behind his master's frantic hissing, coupled with that delightful kiss and those slim, sinful hips moving against his own conveyed the meaning for him.

Still leaning on his right arm, Barty used his left hand to stroke his master's heaving chest, drawing patterns on the warm scales and mapping every dip and rise to memory.

Meanwhile, his hips started up a tentative rhythm. He pulled out and let only the head of his cock remain inside his master before sliding back in. Every now and then, he just stayed there with his broadest part exerting pressure on those ridges that had seemed to pleasure his master so when it had only been his thumbs.

He experimented with angling his hips, moaning wantonly with almost every thrust and followed a (biological?) whim to grab his master's right leg under the knee and lift it up almost to his shoulder. Somehow, this allowed him to sink impossibly deeper and Barty gasped with his eyes screwed shut.

By then, his rhythm was steady and unrelenting and he could feel pleasure starting to pool deep inside his belly.

"If only you could see yourself, feel yourself," he whispered heatedly, allowing himself to steal another kiss from his master's thin, intoxicating lips. "This is... the pinnacle of my devotion for you. Making you feel so good, fuck, please tell me what else you want, and I'll give it. Anything for you, all I am is yours, I swear it, I swear it!"

He leaned back to mouth at his master's inner thigh once more, nibbling and sucking and licking the smooth scales there with abandon.

Voldemort barely felt the caresses against his chest, distracted as he was by the continued movement between his legs. Again for lack of anything better to do with his hands he kept them at Barty's shoulders, stroking and caressing, digging his nails into the boy's skin whenever the cock inside of him was fully sheathed. He did not need to do much – he did not need to do _anything_. His servant fucked into him over and over, and all he needed to do – all he could think to do – was experience it, and hold back his moans as much as he was able. He wasn't sure, now, if he was being successful most of the time.

He could not even have protested when Barty reached down and hefted one of his legs, forcing him open even wider. Perhaps he could have, he corrected himself hazily, if only it hadn't felt as good as it did, and if that angle hadn't suddenly filled him even more assuredly. Groaning, he lifted his head to meet the lips that sought his out, and wondered how he could ever think to ask for more at this moment, when it was already so perfect.

Ah, no. He knew what would improve everything.

Barty had moved back to mouth along Voldemort's inner thigh, the one hefted into the air. He reached up and grabbed the boy's head by the first thing he could reach – the hair – and tugged. With a surge of determined willpower, he shoved the thick feeling from his mouth so he could speak English, hissy though it was.

"Make me come," he gritted out, once he was certain that the boy was paying attention to him.

Had anyone ever told him sweeter words? Commanded him into doing sweeter deeds?

Barty's head lolled back when his hair was grabbed and stayed slack for a moment as his pleasure-addled mind sought to fully decipher his master's words.

"There's nothing I'd love more than to have you come undone by my own doing," he moaned into the warm flesh of his master's thigh.

He rested Lord Voldemort's thigh on his shoulder and, with both hands now free, grabbed the man around the hips and pulled him bodily back into every thrust he made.

A hidden little grin stole its way onto his face when he watched his master's expressions intently. The man was trying so hard to hold back and not be too loud but there was that one angle - yes, there it was again - that made his composure crack.

And, well, he'd asked to be brought to his sweet, sweet climax, right? Barty rearranged his hips _just so_ , thrusting with that perfect angle that drew a delightful moan every time, and stepped up his pace.

Gone was restraint and carefulness -- his master needed to come, and Barty lived only to please. He slammed inside his master's tight, ever tightening, heat with reckless abandon, pushing down on that kindling flame of desire to come as well in his loins. This wasn't about him.

He wondered briefly whether his hands, pulling his master against him almost roughly with every full thrust, would leave marks. He half-hoped they would.

He felt quite sure he was going mad. That could be the only reason why his toes refused to stop curling, why his back kept arching. The friction of all that movement, he thought, would have been painful if his insides weren't so very wet. He loved that – that this was a sensation which was possible. Oh, a cock had never felt so good for him as now, when it did not belong to him.

Then something shifted. The angle changed – Voldemort moaned without being able to stop himself as Barty's cock ground against one of those ridged areas. It kept grinding when it drew back out – and then again, until Voldemort could do no more but fist his hands in the bed sheets and twitch, and try to breathe, as the delicious pressure built. He was hissing again – nonsense, all of it. How had he not climaxed yet?

Yet as that thought passed through his mind he felt the sudden, sharp uptick of pressure, where before it had been building steadily. In between a thrust he hovered on the edge – and then his servant drove back in, and Voldemort found himself grabbing one of Barty's wrists, squeezing his thighs tightly around the boy's hips and clenching down on the cock inside him as the orgasm took him.

When finally it had passed (so wonderful, the best one he had ever had, he thought hazily), he collapsed back against the mattress. All his muscles lay loose and languid – he felt as though he had trained for days, could sleep for three. A pleasant afterglow settled over him, and he sighed.

He'd tried to be good, to be perfect, but then his master's hand ground the bones of his forearm together and Barty gasped in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

Coupled with the heat and friction around him turning into a fucking vice grip, it was entirely too much for Barty's deteriorating composure. So, when his master started to rhythmically contract around him with an expression of bliss and abandon, Barty could no longer hold out and felt his hips stuttering once, twice, three times more before he, too, was coming with a drawn-out moan.

It felt positively wrung out of him — desperate and deep and all-encompassing in its intensity. It was all he could do not to flop down bonelessly on his master's chest, so instead he used what little control over his movements he had left and rolled to the side after carefully having slid out.

His legs were still half lying on top of his master's own and one of his arms was also touching skin (scales) but there was literally nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all, short from a direct command, of course, but he had the feeling his master wouldn't mind overly much after their recent closeness.

Barty let his head fall to the side and looked over at his master with a tender smile on his face. There were no words he could put his feelings into at the moment but he hoped his expression would get the message across.

Finally, Voldemort opened his eyes again. He dimly registered a dip in the mattress beside him, and the heat radiating from another body, as belonging to Barty. A shaky hand came up to rub at his eyes, and with a limp wave of a hand and a hiss, the lamp, still lit in the corner of the room, was doused.

In the newly made darkness, it was easier to roll over and throw an arm over Barty's shoulders. To draw the boy closer to him, and press a closed-lipped kiss to his forehead.

"Good boy," he murmured, and fell right to sleep.

Had Barty not been perfectly relaxed and _this_ close to falling asleep, he may have reacted more strongly to his master's tender actions and words -- the words especially.

As it were, though, he simply burrowed closer to the man , snaked an arm around his waist and grinned into the hard chest welcoming him so.

He was asleep in a matter of seconds.

The Dark Lord awoke to sunlight falling across his face. He felt strange, in an unusual way that wasn't actually unpleasant, yet it was unfamiliar. He felt loose and relaxed, and the skin against his chest was warm, and...

_Wait. A. Minute._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up until 5 am to write this in one go with Kit. – Rab


	10. an Unfortunate Ghosting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The real beginning of Voldemort's gay crisis. – Kit

Impulsive. _Impulsive._ Damn his fucking impulses to hell!

Voldemort did not want to think about what he had done. Rather, what he had incited – no, not worth thinking on. Not –

He couldn’t think, here, and shouldn’t be, either. Inevitably it would be – he refused to show weakness in front of Barty, nor to allow the boy to witness anything that might shake his loyalty – Voldemort enjoyed, _needed_ that loyalty.

It took a while, but he managed to extract himself from the embrace without awakening the boy. Rather than risk the noise of the shower awakening his servant, he merely used a cleaning charm upon himself (not ideal for long-term use, but it would do here) and pulled on a set of dark robes. He did not flee the bedroom – though he did walk rather quickly.

Finally, he was downstairs. Alone, unobserved ( _safe_ ), he took stock of himself. He did not feel any pain. His hips felt a little tender, only faintly, and it wasn’t even dramatic enough to be called an ache. He hadn’t seen any bruises on his skin while he was dressing. He did not feel ill, or poisoned. He felt well-rested and a little hungry. An anxious energy coursed through him, but that was predictable and most likely from himself. His magic felt fine. He reached out wandlessly and summoned an ember from one of the cottage's lanterns with a twitch of his fingers, and watched with satisfaction as it came to him, just as he’d willed it to, and burned merrily in his palm.

He clenched his fingers, forced it to gutter out, and cast a number of diagnostic charms for love potions on himself. They all came up confused, no results whatsoever. No ill effects, then – no potions in his system. By all indications he ought to be fine, but –

If he was _fine_ , then what had possessed him to –

He pressed his knuckles to the bridge of his nose (or where that would be, once he finally finished the reparation potion) and drew in a breath. It was so difficult to even think it – that he had – damn it all – invited Barty to his bed. Allowed the boy to see him nude – to touch him – to _put his cock inside of him_ – until he climaxed. Until they both did.

He had never, he realized dimly, had sex with another human before. He had thought he was supposed to feel more momentously different afterwards, but he merely felt the same as he always did.

With another deep breath, Voldemort wandered onto the back porch – not, fortunately, visible from the bedroom. There he happened upon Nagini, who was lying stretched across a span of sand amongst the beach grasses, sunning herself. He opened his mouth to say something to her – he was not certain what – when she preempted him, lifting her head. “ _Did you have fun, then?_ ” she asked.

Voldemort frowned. “ _What?_ ” he hissed.

“ _With your human_ ,” she replied. A flick of her tail indicated she thought it should have been obvious. “ _Was it nice?_ ”

“ _How do you know about that._ ”

“ _I looked in when I thought it was time to go to sleep_ ,” she hissed snootily. “ _But you were mating with your human, so I left you to it._ ” Her head wavered, a snake’s shrug, and she lay back down on the sand. “ _You seemed like you liked it. Why are you mad at me?_ ”

Before he could quite process the action, Voldemort had flopped down to sit on the ground by her. “ _I’m not mad at you_ ,” he hissed dully. “ _I’m mad at myself._ ”

“ _Oh? Why?_ ”

“ _Because I shouldn’t have done it!_ ” he snarled. “ _It was an idiotic impulse, and I allowed it to go too far, and now I’ll have to deal with –_ ” Horrified, he cut himself off, and his eyes widened. “Sweet fockin’ Christ. _I have to deal with him now. What if he – this is so terrible._ ”

“ _Voldemort, you’re doing that thing again where you’re really dumb._ ”

“ _I was very dumb!_ ”

“ _It can’t be that bad. Did you like mating?_ ”

“ _I –_ ”

Unwillingly, heat rushed to his cheeks as he remembered his climax last night. How he had ignored all his common sense and allowed himself to be so intolerably vulnerable, all for – what? Pleasure? Sex? And yet…

Nothing bad had happened, he allowed. So far, at least.

Maybe it would be alright.

Maybe.

  


Waking up felt like pulling himself through molasses. When Barty forced one eye open and sat up a little, he saw that the bedroom was empty and sighed. He flopped back onto bed with a groan and looked out the window.

Contrary to what he may have believed yesterday evening, the sea had not turned red and the heavens had not been split into two. Huh. Seemed like the world would just continue turning as it usually did.

Barty crawled out of bed and vanished the sheets into the laundry basket. One of the household spells he'd picked up took care of refitting the bed with sheets while he made his way into the shower.

He went down not much later and found that his master had shut himself in the library. Any door being closed with his master behind it, he'd learned, meant that that particular room was a Barty-free zone for the time being unless otherwise instructed.

Normally, it was fine, but this day it _stung_.

When it became time for lunch, and his master still hadn't emerged, Barty started fretting. He shouldn't have. Definitely not. He was the servant, and it was _his_ responsibility to keep his master from doing things he might regret if it lay within his powers.

And instead, he'd… he'd… Barty hid his burning face in his hands. At least it had been totally, utterly worth it, and so far he hadn't been cast out. Maybe his master just needed time to work through everything on his own.

He just hoped that the man would work through it well before dinner because. Because. Leaving for his long mission without seeing him… well, he'd survive it. He had to.

When just half an hour remained before his portkey was set to activate, Barty had already left a note, tidied everything up, got the washing done and packed up his things. He waited twenty more minutes, sighed and grabbed the broken broom handle his master had fashioned into an international portkey for him.

He left the wards with a heavy heart and vowed to be successful, if only to make his master proud of him once more.

Not much later, Barty staggered and fell to his knees in a field in the middle of nowhere. Portkeys were literally the _worst_.

He spent the next two days, after a restless sleep in an inn, in Magical Berlin's version of Diagon Alley. Märchengasse, it was called, and Barty loved how whimsical it was, with buildings older even than the ones back home.

He spent many hours and even more galleons talking to the Dark underbelly of Berlin when finally, _finally_ , one of them was able to tell him the address Gregorovitch lived at during his retirement.

From then on, it was business as usual – stuff he'd done countless times during the Wizarding War. He felt strangely detached while he Disillusioned himself and staked out his parameter. Gregorovitch lived alone, as far as he could tell, in what had been Magical East Berlin until about half a dozen years ago. When he deemed it safe enough, Barty broke in with ease during his third night in Germany and found the man sleeping in his bed.

A simple body-bind spell and stinging hex later, the old wandmaker was looking up at him with naked fear in his eyes.

"I'm not here to kill you," Barty told him calmly and was relieved to see that the man calmed down somewhat. "I merely want information. After that, I'll Obliviate you. If you play by my rules, you will not be harmed. Do you understand?"

He released the spell on the man's head and fortunately for him, he nodded eagerly.

"I vant to live, sir," the old man grunted.

"Good, then we're on the same page!" Barty clapped his hands excitedly and grinned broadly. "I hate screamers, you see? Right, it's about the Elder Wand. Tell me everything you know."

"Oh, you are not ze first to vant to know about zat wand," Gregorovitch replied with a frown. "Zere is little I can tell you."

"Try me." Barty winked.

"Mh. As you vish. I bought ze wand from a man who needed money more than magic and… I was a fool and told people I had a powerful wand. It was stolen. That's ven I last saw it."

"Bit anticlimactic," Barty sneered. "I'm gonna need more than that, old man. Who stole it? Who knew?"

"Many people knew," Gregorovitch replied, looking somewhat pained. "I was a young man then. Foolish. I only saw a young man with blond hair, like yours, but I never found out who he vas. Let me go, I told you all!"

Barty ignored Gregorovitch continuing to plead for his release and considered his options. Finally, though he was not a master by a long shot, he decided to use what Legilimency he could do on the old man. Thankfully, Gregorovitch's mind was as little guarded as his home and he was able to quickly find the memory, recently woken up as it was.

The next day, Barty was having a late breakfast/early lunch in a café and read Der Zaubererspiegel, the German equivalent of the Prophet. Apparently, the wandmaker Gregorovitch had been killed that night. Shame.

He was musing over where he'd seen the young face in the old man's memories before when finally, over a delicious piece of cake, a memory slipped into place.

Talking to Dumbledore like an old friend had been hard, but some of the knowledge he'd learned had been almost worth it. Definitely worth it now, because he remembered looking into a closed drawer of Albus' desk with Moody's magical eye that held a normal, not-animated photograph of a young Albus Dumbledore standing next to another young man, this one blonde and regal-looking.

_To Albus,  
My very best friend in the world.  
Yours, Gellert_

_Grindelwald._

_ Jackpot. _

While he was still in what used to be East Berlin, Barty purchased another wand that called to him when he tested it, Germany not having such restrictive laws on owning more than one wand like Magical Great Britain did. Laurel wood, phoenix feather core, 11 ¾ inches. (He got it from Gregorovitch Zauberstäbe and even left a tip with a bright smile.)

With his new wand registered to Edward Smith, he bought an international portkey back home and landed in the foyer of the Ministry of Magic.

"Welcome back to Magical Great Britain, Mister Smith," a pretty young lady greeted him and Barty smiled back at her.

"Thank you very much, ma'm," he replied easily and gave her his new wand for registration before letting his feet take him towards the Floos. From there, he Flooed to Diagon Alley and went to the Prophet headquarters.

That whole afternoon was spent sorting through very old Prophet back issues until finally, shortly before the office was about to close for visitors, he found what he'd been looking for: an article about a young Albus Dumbledore, handsome and strong, dueling an opponent in Hogwarts' then-active dueling club.

The wand the young man was holding looked nothing like the wand he was wielding nowadays – the one with those strange berries Barty had wondered about upon seeing them.

 _Dumbledore_ of all people having the Elder Wand complicated matters, but… at least they knew what they were dealing with, he supposed. It was up to his master to decide on their further course of action, in any case. A pang shot through him when he thought about his master but he forced the coldness threatening to creep upon his heart back.

Before he could wallow in self-pity and thoughts that wouldn't get him anywhere, he grit his teeth, got a copy of that issue of the Prophet, and returned to the path leading to the cottage via Apparition.

He felt weary and tired, and it was already growing dark. And then, because they hadn't specified a date for his return, he sent his Patronus as a vanguard so his master wouldn't be spooked by someone entering his cottage during the night.

  


When Lord Voldemort had finally managed to convince himself that it was alright to leave the library – and further, that he was mentally prepared to look Barty in the eye without making some unfortunate expression – he found instead that the house was empty. A strange moment of panic shot through him as he observed that the boy wasn’t in the kitchen where he ought to be at this time of night.

He couldn’t be – he couldn’t have _gone_ – he couldn’t – he wasn’t _allowed to leave_ –

But there was a note.

_Master,  
I hope your day has been good so far.  
I prepared the house for my absence and hope to return here with new information for you.  
I'm already looking forward to seeing you once more.  
Yours always,  
Barty_

Right, Voldemort thought, holding the scrap of parchment in his hand and wondering why his ribs felt like they were clenching. Of course. The international Portkey and the expedition to Germany had been set for today. That fact should not have slipped his mind – Voldemort was irritated at himself, for forgetting. He should have shown his face at least once before his most loyal servant departed for an unknown number of days.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.

Over the next few days of Barty’s absence, Lord Voldemort got less done than he would have liked. He kept falling into bad habits, like staring out the window moodily, or pacing in the middle of the sitting room without purpose. He spoke a lot with Nagini – about nothing in particular, most of the time, and if not, then about their travels, back in the 1960s. He was feeling nostalgic for reasons unknown to him, and he could not say he liked it that much. Once, he even felt strange enough to glamour himself to appear a normal muggle human, and wandered around in the nearest muggle city for a day doing nothing in particular.

He disliked not getting any work done, though. He felt useless. Useless was not a feeling that he should ever have to suffer through.

By the end of the third day, as he lay in bed with Nagini coiled comfortably across his chest, he finally admitted to himself that his strange moodiness might, just maybe, be due to his conflicted emotions regarding Barty. He wished once more that he had been able to see the boy’s face before he left for his mission. He was a fool to have forgotten – was he not supposed to be intelligent? What kind of Dark Lord forgot the mission schedule of his own favorite servant?

Favorite.

Maybe that was the problem.

Barty was his favorite. Voldemort thought this sentence to himself, testing how it felt. He had a favorite – what? Servant? Human? Person? Boy? Not his favorite snake, certainly – Nagini was his favorite snake. Nagini certainly counted as a person. Did he like Barty or Nagini better?

… Nagini, he thought. Yet then he thought again, and felt indescribably guilty for thinking again. He buried his face in Nagini’s scales and scratched her head in recompense for even considering such a thing.

Barty was certainly Voldemort’s favorite _human_ , though, the only one whose presence didn’t grate even when Voldemort wanted quiet and solitude. His favorite servant, of course. (And perhaps it helped, that the boy’s cock felt the way it did – but he _wasn’t_ thinking about that right now.)

The next morning, unable to deal with it anymore, Voldemort sat down and mapped out a mental roadmap of the boy’s return. He would need to assess Barty’s mental state and overall attitude. Reinforce that he felt appreciation for his loyalty, as Voldemort knew he could ill afford to lose Barty’s loyalty in any way now that he had – had sex with him. He had to ensure Barty remained with Voldemort, just as loyal as before. He would need to – he hated this – to _clarify_ their relationship, in case the boy had any – false conceptions.

He would probably need to know more of what their relationship _was_ before he did so, but Voldemort figured he would get to that later. Or maybe it would come to him in the moment. For now, he was almost done with the reparation potion, and he wished to actually concentrate on something for once.

That night, as he was reading in bed (a bad habit, perhaps, but one he’d never gotten rid of), a coyote Patronus leapt onto the balcony. After a short moment of consternation, Voldemort recognised it.

Barty was back.

For a moment he stared at the glowing spirit. Then he was suddenly moving, throwing on the dressing-gown robe he had never once had use for since acquiring his new wardrobe and rushing down the stairs before he stopped and forced himself to regain his composure. He was not – he shuddered – eager.

Intentionally he cultivated a measured step, peering carefully into each room he passed on his way to the front door, looking for the boy.

  


By the time Barty had arrived at the front door, he was able to see the world in colour once more. Strange how he only just noticed how morose and gloomy everything had seemed even though it was the middle of summer.

He ran his hand over his face and _Finite_ 'd the glamour he'd been wearing for _days_ – gods, how he hated having to hide constantly – before he opened the door. The kitchen was a right mess but he was too tired to deal with it right now. Tomorrow, he decided, while he took off his formal cravat.

His master seemed to still be awake for Barty heard someone walking somewhere around where the library had to be. He decided to wait and see whether he'd come to do a debriefing and steeled himself for them possibly meeting once more.

"I'm back," he announced awkwardly in a clear voice. "And I'm fine. Nothing much bad happened."

He busied himself with preparing a sandwich because he hadn't eaten since the meal in the German café.

  


Voldemort was passing the library, feeling a strong temptation to shut himself up in there again, when he heard Barty's voice calling out. Ah. It was nice to know that he was fine, he supposed, and from the angle of the call, Voldemort suspected that Barty was in the kitchen.

... There were a lot of dirty dishes in the kitchen. Voldemort pressed a hand to his face and willed himself to have strength. It didn't matter. If need be he could – he had ways. If only his stomach would stop moving around that would be delightful.

He could go back to bed, but that would only delay the inevitable, and he was interested in what had transpired on the mission and didn't want to continue feeling useless – so, to the kitchen he headed, idly checking a clock as he did so. It was only nine in the evening – and here he was, ready to go to bed? Not that he looked at clocks on the best of days...

Barty was in the kitchen, still wearing a robe over his waistcoat and shirt, and preparing a sandwich. Voldemort stopped in the threshold of the room, and deliberated for a moment on what to say.

"Hello," he finally said, and then wondered if he could possibly have said anything stupider.

  


Hearing the pitter-patter of naked feet had Barty's heart pick up the pace something fierce. When the feet stopped, there was silence until his master greeted him and Barty turned around, sandwich momentarily forgotten.

"Good evening," he replied and bowed low at the hip. "I don't see my note anymore, so I hope you found it sometime soon after my departure."

Not that he would have seen it under all the clutter, probably, but it was not the worst thing he could have said.

"I trust you've been well during my absence, master? If you were on your way to bed, we could... have a debriefing over breakfast, maybe?"

His hands were begging him to be allowed to fidget so he quickly turned around and grabbed his sandwich before facing his master once more.

  


"Well enough," Voldemort said, taking one step farther into the kitchen and glancing around. The sight of the mess only made him want to wince, so he looked back at Barty. It was easier than he had expected – yet perhaps that was because the boy was being so...

Formal.

Voldemort didn't like it.

"It's only a quarter past nine," he said mildly. "I was..."

He stopped himself with some consternation when he realized that he had about to admit a bad habit, aloud. Why would he ever – _when_ had he ever, to anyone but Nagini?

"Never mind that," he said, and tried to get back to business. "If you require rest before your debriefing, I see no reason why it cannot be tomorrow morning."

  


Barty winced – mostly internally – when his master replied just as formally as he himself had been talking.

Gods, was this how it was going to be from now on? If only he'd known, then he'd never have, have...

"I'll just go get washed up and grab some things upstairs," he explained, put his sandwich, bitten once, back on the plate and crossed the kitchen to walk past his master.

Just as they were next to each other, an arm shot out and Barty stopped dead in his tracks. He still somewhat collided with it and felt himself blush. That had been physical contact and while it wasn't much, it was a start and more than he'd hoped for that evening or maybe even any time in the future.

Barty let his gaze travel upwards from the arm, over the shoulder, the sensual expanse of neck and finally, to his master's face.

He felt strange, and giddy, and nervous but, most of all, hopeful.

  


Though in the future he would never admit it to himself, Voldemort felt a shot of panic through his bones when Barty made to leave. Without thinking his arm shot out to block the path – to _keep him here_.

The gaze that eventually lifted to Lord Voldemort's face was wide-eyed – hopeful, even, he thought he might say. The cheeks were red-tinged, and Voldemort wondered if it was because of the embarrassment of colliding with the arm, or because of – other factors.

Without knowledge of what words to use – nor even whether he would be able to force them from his throat should he find them at all – Voldemort settled for sweeping his outstretched arm down, across Barty's shoulders, and pulling the man against his chest in a one-armed hug.

  


And just like that, reality made a somersault and righted itself again in the right colours. Finally, the awful blur on everything was gone – strange how he hadn't noticed.

For the longest second, Barty stayed stockstill in the warmth and closeness before he moved to return the gesture. His arms encircled his master's waist and his fingers grabbed a fierce hold of the soft dressing gown the man was wearing.

"Master," he pressed out, voice full of emotions he didn't dare, couldn't, speak aloud. "I've missed you these past days..."

  


"Mm," Voldemort hummed in acknowledgement. Barty had missed him. Good, he thought, as he brought his free arm around and used it to cradle Barty's head to his chest. Yes. This was... warm, and it was good. Oddly, Voldemort felt the malaise of the past days melting from him, as if all he had needed to banish it was to – what? Touch another human?

Perhaps it was Barty, specifically. That seemed more likely.

"Your housekeeping skills are... sorely needed," he admitted softly, resting his chin on the boy's head. "I was much distracted by projects this past week."

  


Barty snorted when he was quite done with melting under and into his master's touch. Thank the Gods this awful tension between them was gone...

Maybe they'd needed that distance? It was said to make the heart grow fonder, in any case.

"Never thought my education would lead to me being a maid," he quipped and nosed into his master's soft throat. And then, because he could, and because he desired to hear praise: "I found out where the Elder Wand is."

  


"Is it not a high honor to be a maid for Lord Voldemort?" Voldemort quipped, taken a bit giddy by his strange mood.

Then his mind caught up to what Barty had said, and reflexively he grasped the boy's shoulders tightly, pushing him away enough that he could look down at his face. "Pardon me? Say that again?"

  


"I'm very sure I was mostly just very, very lucky but... yeah."

He grinned sheepishly and retrieved the ancient issue of the Prophet from his pouch.

"So me having found out where it is was the good news. Now for the bad news: This is Dumbledore's wand during his Hogwarts years and, well, it's not that one anymore now. He defeated Grindelwald, took the spoils, and there you go. Death Stick, right under all our noses."

He looked up searchingly into his master's eyes, expression hard and earnest. "You know what this means, don't you? Any advantage he might have had over you is not because of his power or his experience. It's only because he wields the most powerful wand of them all!"

  


"Grindelwald had the Elder Wand?" Voldemort breathed, and plucked the newspaper from Barty's hands. There in the image – a very youthful Dumbledore, apparently, dueling. His wand was notably not the wand which Barty had described and drawn in his little book of notes – more of a thin specimen with a slight, curling groove to it. It was not entirely visible in the image, but it was clearly not the long, thin wand studded with clumps of berry-like carvings which Dumbledore now wielded.

"That manipulative old fiend," he said slowly, a hiss underlying his tone. "Yet not altogether unexpected, for a man like that..."

He deliberately re-folded the newspaper and offered it back to Barty. "At least I know now where it is, and where it is likely to stay in the future."

Briefly, he considered again the map of Hogwarts which Barty had brought him, and a grin forced its way across the Dark Lord's features.

"Very good," he said. "Excellent work once again. Tomorrow you will explain the details to me." His gaze fell on the abandoned sandwich. "But for now, finish your meal. Do you have any other surprise presents to drop on me before I retire for the night?"

  


"I have a new wand too!" Barty remembered excitedly and had it shoot out from the holster around his forearm. "It's so much easier to cast again, now. Moody's wand so didn't agree with me, actually. I had to force my magic through it like a river having to pass through the eye of a needle. And now it's just, _boom_ , instantly there."

He grinned fondly down at it. "It's such a good feeling, when things just... fit together, you know?"

Here, he looked up again with a blush and a smile.

  


Voldemort nodded throughout his servant's explanation of the polished, mottled reddish-brown wand he had acquired in Germany. It would be excellent to have a capable servant with a working wand again, he thought distantly. A few training sessions to ensure that Barty wasn't unintentionally overpowering his spells after spending so much time with an unfriendly wand, and the boy would be ready to go on missions with a greater potential of danger...

"It's such a good feeling, when things just... fit together, you know?" the boy said, and. Wait.

Was that an _innuendo?_

Oh no, Voldemort thought with a small degree of panic as Barty's eyes lifted up towards his again. There was a blush upon his cheeks, and Voldemort immediately thought of – _movement and friction and being filled_ –

"Yes," he said nodding slowly. "But mind you don't try something you're not ready for." He wasn't even certain what he was talking about – the wand and the training sessions? Or – _Sex._

Then again, perhaps it didn't matter.

  


"Nah, I'll start slow and work my way up," Barty replied with a sappy smile before clearing his throat and retrieving his sandwich.

He went up the stairs, eating to have something to do, and wondered what exactly they'd been talking about. It had felt good to talk like that though, he thought, and made his way into the bathroom.

Since he was only doing a bit of a sponge bath, he left the door open and came out in his pants when he was done.

Briefly, he wondered where he'd be sleeping that night.

  


Voldemort remained in the kitchen for a moment after Barty left with his sandwich. He was thinking, rather hard, but he couldn't seem to come to any conclusions. Eventually he gave it up as a bad job, and headed to the sink and the ice box to fix himself a glass of water, before he went back upstairs.

Barty was in the bathroom. Voldemort pointedly did not look in, unwilling to perhaps incite another... incident? Should he be calling it an incident, or an encounter? He didn't really know.

He felt that things were alright, though. Settled. He enjoyed that sense, as he placed the glass of water on the bedside table and shooed Nagini off his book, so that he could place the older tome safely on the floor beneath the bed, where it couldn't be stepped on or have water spilled on it by accident.

" _You took my pillow_ ," Nagini hissed.

" _Well, maybe you should use my head as your pillow_ ," Voldemort told her. Behind him, he heard the door opening, and soft footsteps.

  


Barty watched Lord Voldemort and his snake talk with each other and smiled fondly at their antics.

The more he saw of their interactions, the surer he was that they were just... good friends? Rather than pet and master or anything like that.

He cleared his throat, softly, because he felt almost bad about interrupting them.

"So, shall I..? I mean, where..." A deep breath. "May I share your bed, master? It's been... very lonely for me, the past nights. I missed you and I have no idea how I, how I even survived those thirteen years without you."

He hugged himself around the middle, a little self-conscious about his naked chest now that he was standing in the middle of the room.

  


A pair of red eyes blinked at Barty for a moment. He hadn't thought... well. Finally, the Dark Lord managed to find his voice. "You may sleep here, yes," he said, doing his best to keep his aloofness, and gestured to the bed. Did he need to indicate that there would be no sexual contact? How did he say something like that?

In the end, Voldemort gave that up as a bad job as well. If Barty touched him in a way he did not desire (and he did not desire at the moment), he would just tell the boy to stop. Feeling content with that, Voldemort sat down on the edge of the bedside and began the arduous task of convincing Nagini that she needed to move to make room for him. Damn stubborn snake.

  


Relieved, Barty made his way over to the bed and sank down onto the soft linen. Much better than the hotel beds he'd been sleeping in.

Musing, he wondered whether he'd ever slept in a bed more luxurious, more comfortable than this one, and came up blank.

Not wanting to disturb his master's hissed conversation further and quite content with this degree of closeness for now, Barty rolled himself into a tight ball with his back to his master and the snake, pulled some thin covers over himself and closed his eyes with a small sigh.

Safe. Warm.

… _Home_.

  


With Nagini finally wrested from the spot where his body needed to go, Voldemort brought himself to glance over at Barty. To his slight surprise, but also to his pleasure, the boy was curled up already, facing away from Voldemort. As if he had indeed only planned to sleep.

Good, Voldemort thought vaguely. Good.

When he turned the light out and came to bed himself, he allowed his arms to wrap around Barty's waist. His chin he placed atop the boy's head, and sighed softly with the pleasure of having somebody warm in his arms.

He fell asleep much more quickly that night.


	11. Scale Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Game for this chapter (maybe for the entire fic tbh?): Find all the queer themes. – Kit

After another delightful night in his master's arms, Barty woke before dawn, feeling refreshed and full of energy. He gently extricated himself from the arm still clinging to his waist and pattered over to his wardrobe.

A soft _Lumos_ helped him to choose some light summer clothing they'd gotten from Madam Maier on a second trip a couple weeks ago – gods, but she'd looked smug for some reason.

He spent the early morning cleaning the kitchen and putting the library to rights again and was very, very relieved his master had taken him with him. Who knew how things would have looked if his master had lived here all on his own?

After sharing breakfast and having his debriefing, Lord Voldemort had gone down to the potions lab and had stayed there, interrupted by meals, all day. Barty had used that time to tidy _everywhere_ , made easy by how well his wand reacted to him, and gone out to the beach in the afternoon when all the housework was done.

After having trained his magic and his control over his wand for hours, he was glad to fall into bed after dinner was done. His master joined him later and they spent another night delightfully wrapped around each other.

  


The next day, when his master had not come up for lunch after having assured him he'd be there at breakfast, Barty grew worried. He gave it another quarter hour after their agreed time before he descended the stairs into the cellar and knocked on the door leading into the potions lab.

There was no answer and a quiet sense of dread stole over him.

"Master? I'm coming in now in five, four, three, two, one – "

He pushed the door open and immediately, he saw his master sitting at the table, leaning heavily on one arm. Barty couldn't see his face, but sitting kind of upright was a good thing, wasn't it?

There was an empty glass in front of Lord Voldemort, a peculiarly purple couple drops left at the bottom of it, and Barty cursed.

"No no no, what have you taken, what have you – "

Then, when he got closer, he noticed that what he had thought to be a hat or hood of some sort was actually...

"Hair..? Oh master..!"

He practically flew over the last couple feet separating them and put his hand on Lord Voldemort's shoulder.

"Can you hear me? Are you alright? Shall I bring you to the healer? Talk to me!"

  


The reparation potion was purple, and smelled bitter. Voldemort was not looking forward to drinking it, but sometimes, needs must.

He tipped it back before he could think further on the matter. It was viscous, like drinking a smoothie, and he forced himself to swallow past his gag reflex. When it was all gone, he waited for a moment, rolling the glass around idly in his fingers. Based on his calculations, it should begin to work right around –

It began as a prickling sensation all across his scalp. Then it passed to his face proper, and Voldemort had to resist the urge to reach up as he felt actual hair tickling the nap of his neck. He hoped he wouldn't need to go to a stylist afterwards, but he hadn't been able to work out how to style the hair on top of growing it back, and didn't wish to complicate his arithmancy needlessly.

His sinuses abruptly exploded in pain – only for a moment, so that soon it was merely echoes. But the sensation crept throughout his skull, until his entire head throbbed. The room spun – he barely managed to set the glass down on the table rather than having it drop to the floor. Slowly, trying to work through the pounding in his temples, he eased himself onto the nearest seat and propped his head up on his arm, so that he could close his eyes without fear of falling over. He still felt dizzy, but he was relatively stable for now, and he focused on breathing.

He couldn't tell how long he sat there, breathing. Eventually the headache had eased from head-splitting to merely a throb, and the dizziness receded. He didn't move yet, for fear it would strike him again if he tried to stand up.

There was a voice speaking at the door. Voldemort's consciousness recoiled from the sense of noise, and he was unable to properly parse what had been said. More speech, and a door opening, but Voldemort recognised the speaker as Barty. That was alright, then. Barty was fine.

A hand touched his shoulder. The words that Voldemort had been hearing finally ordered themselves into comprehensible speech – inquiries as to his welfare. Hm. Was it that bad?

"I am fine," he muttered thickly, and opened his eyes. "It's passing."

  


"Passing? What? What's passing? Is that a nose? Why do you have hair?"

Barty felt himself growing hysteric and forced himself to take deep, measured breaths.

"Did you take an experimental potion without telling me?" he asked, distraught. "Oh master, I should have been there for you!"

He hastily conjured a lounge seat and helped his master up and over so he could sit comfortable and with his legs up and his back resting against something.

"Don't move, I'll get you something to eat and drink. Maybe it's the same as my transformations back in Hogwarts... I always felt dizzy afterwards."

He ran upstairs at breakneck speed and returned with a plate of lunch and a glass of fresh water floating behind him. The latter floated first to his master, and Barty grabbed it out of the air and held it close to his master's lips.

"Here, it's water. It'll make you feel better, hopefully."

  


Of course he had taken the potion without telling Barty, Voldemort thought distantly. Why was that surprising? What reason would he have had to tell?

Regardless, he allowed himself to be helped up and into a lounge chair that hadn't been there before. It was comfortable – good conjuration, he thought distantly as he settled into the cushions. The dizziness had returned somewhat when he had stood upright, and he was glad to have the freedom not to have to hold any part of his own body upright. When Barty returned, he opened his eyes again – he hadn't noticed them closing – and took the offered glass of water to sip at. Immediately he felt somewhat better, and his head cleared a bit.

"I should like a mirror," he said. With a snap of his fingers, he was able to wandlessly summon the plate of food to his lap. Good. Magic not impacted. "You said I had a nose?" He touched his face, and was pleased to confirm that it seemed to be true.

  


Mirrors being especially hard to conjure, Barty reluctantly left his master's side again to retrieve a hand mirror from the upstairs bathroom.

When he returned, he was glad to see his master was eating and handed him the mirror. Assured now that the man was merely exhausted and dizzy, Barty sighed in relief as he sat on a bench lining one of the work tables.

"Is this... permanent? You're also kinda losing your scales. Will they grow back?"

It was weird to see his master with a nose again, outside of a glamour. It was like the old days, almost... Lord Voldemort had been so very handsome back then, and all the Lords and Ladies had thrown themselves at his feet. He wondered whether it would be like this again now and felt a very unfamiliar pang of jealousy in his heart.

Patience, he bade himself once more. Restraint. You are his, but he is not yours. Be content with your lot.

And he was. Truly, he was. And yet…

  


The food restored him even further. By the time Barty returned with the requested mirror, Voldemort was feeling only the faintest traces of a headache, and some degree of exhaustion – likely from the pain.

"It ought to be – " he began to state, but cut himself off. He was losing _what?_

Putting the plate back on his lap, Voldemort examined his hands. There was a curious feeling across his skin – faintly itchy, prickly, almost. He rubbed the fingertips of his right hand together idly, and watched with a distant calm as the tiny scales – so small they were almost like silvery flecks of glitter – buckled up from the surface of his body where he rubbed them, some of them cascading down to settle on his robes.

"Huh," he said, and rubbed more. Pale human skin shone through underneath – a skin tone that he remembered having. His skin.

"I seem to have restored my skin as well as my hair and nose," he murmured. "Interesting. I shall have to look again at the arithmancy..." He took the last sip from his glass of water. "Barty, bring me those parchments on the third shelf over there," he said, and gestured. "And the mirror."

  


Barty felt his blood turn to ice when he registered what his master's words meant and his body felt weird and kind of floaty when he went to retrieve the documents his master had asked for.

Instead of sitting back on the bench, he knelt next to the lounge seat and took one of his master's hands in his own.

"Please, listen to me," he begged. "At least... at least let me know in advance if you next use an untested potion so I can... stand by in case something bad happens. I trust your arithmancy but magic is fickle at the best of times and, well," he gestured at the skin, " _stuff always happens_." 

He shook his head viciously and pressed his forehead to his master's hand.

"I couldn't bear if anything happened to you. The very thought of me coming down here and finding you utterly cold and unresponsive... I... I know I shouldn't ask favours of you but in the interest of self-preservation..."

His words petered out there, voice too full of an emotion he couldn't name to continue speaking, and he let go of Lord Voldemort's hand so as not to restrain the man unduly. Instead, he buried his own face in his hands and forced himself to take deep breaths.

  


He had been stabbed, once. It had been before Voldemort was _Lord_ Voldemort – during his world travels. It had been before he was as good at fighting and combat as he had later become. Just a muggle – a petty criminal trying to grift travelers and foreigners. Voldemort had been too keen for the scum to be able to take advantage of him, but he had allowed the man too close to him, hadn't been as comfortable, back then, with whipping out his wand in a muggle area – still hadn't shaken that sense that the Ministry would come for him if he did.

The knife had cut into his throat. For a moment he had only been able to experience it – the sensation of blood streaming in waterfalls down his body, air leaking from his lungs. It had hurt. His chest had burned. And –

Then he had stayed standing. Could still move and think, was still alive. Thank God, thank Christ for horcruxes.

Since that day, the power of his soul jars demonstrated so thoroughly to him, Voldemort had never thought twice about potentially injuring himself. His body could still move, even if his heart failed, even if his throat was cut. A broken spine might be problematic but he had plans in place to deal with it. It was why he knew so many healing spells – the thought that someday he might need to heal his own cracked skull.

As he looked down at Barty's kneeling form, breathing shakily, he couldn't remember if he had ever told anyone this. (Nagini knew, but then, she'd been there for it all.)

He felt... He did not know the name for the emotion. But he did not like it.

"If it sets you at ease, then I will have you stand by in the future," he told Barty, deliberately placing a hand on his head and digging his fingers into the scalp. "But you must know that I cannot be killed that simply. The Potter Incident was a fluke. So long as my body is not vaporized as it was then, I can function even with a stopped heart."

He couldn't bring himself to go into more detail, but that ought to be enough.

  


"Alright," Barty replied shakily, not quite sure this was the admission he'd hoped for but taking it because it was better than nothing.

He worried, sometimes, about the state of his master's emotions. But at least he knew now that the man had some in the first place. Not like quite in the beginning, when Lord Voldemort had seemed to him as unmoving and cold as a glacier.

Then, an image forced itself into the forefront of his mind – of his master writhing and moaning in ecstasy, cheeks heated, trying so very hard to keep everything in and failing, caught in the throes of pleasure as he was.

Barty ducked his head shyly. Patience, above all, would stay his dear companion for the foreseeable future, so he shook off the weird feeling that had taken hold of him.

"I think your new, or, well, _old_ look suits you a lot, master. We'll just have to see someone about that hair." Barty frowned in thought. "I learned a basic hair cutting spell I could use to tide you over until we can visit Rittic Alley."

A thought crossed his mind, then. It was currently the 12th of August, so only one day until–

"We could go tomorrow? It's supposed to be hot. I'll treat you to some ice cream!"

  


Voldemort ran his fingers through the new hair. It did feel long and unkempt. Holding back a grimace, he brought up the mirror and examined himself.

To his delight, it wasn't as bad as he might have feared, despite his unkempt hair and the patchy, falling-out scales. His hair was the same texture and color as he remembered, with that slight wave to it. His eyebrows looked like they were the same shape as he remembered, so really, they might as well be identical to his old body. His nose, too, seemed the same – he turned his head a few times and took it in with pleasure.

"A hair-cutting charm would not be amiss," he said, and then frowned internally at the proposal. Normally, he would take care of his own hair – he disliked submitting himself to others when sharp objects would be involved near his head. But then again... ice cream.

"If we are to go to the Alley, I shall have to finish rubbing off all these scales," he said, eying his hands suspiciously. "It may require some... assistance."

  


"As you please, master," Barty replied with a pronounced blush on his cheeks. Surely he wasn't referring to...

"Shall I prepare the bathroom? Might be nice to just flush everything down the drain. I could definitely come and help with your feet and back."

To the Alley, with his master not glamoured, sounded amazing. Barty was very much looking forward to not having to hide his own face anymore.

He'd had enough of hiding.

"I think using towels should prove the most productive."

  


"Mm," Voldemort hummed. "Yes... though I fear I will be picking scales out of these robes for days. Go prepare the bathroom. I'll wait here until it is ready, so the scales get as few places as possible."

A thought occurred to him. "Have you eaten? You may eat before preparing the bathroom, if you have not. And see if you can find Nagini and tell her where I am and that I would like to speak with her."

  


"I'll eat something while working," Barty waved his master's concerns aside and made for the door.

After getting his plate and making it float beside him, he went to look for the snake – sunning on the back porch once more – and told her to go to Lord Voldemort downstairs.

Next, he went into the bathroom and prepared everything with towels and washcloths while hiding everything that didn't need scales on it in the cabinets. (Toothbrushes, for example.)

Finally, he sent his coyote to his master with the message to come join him upstairs.

  


When Nagini arrived, she gave a predictable hiss of dismay, and demanded to know what he'd done with himself. Voldemort eventually had to coax her onto his lap, and lavish her with scale scratches, to get her to calm down and accept that, sadly, he wasn't going to be scaled anymore. (" _I'm still so mad_ ," she hissed.)

He picked her up and carried her with him when he received Barty's patronus. Then, of course, she asked where they were going – and when he told her, she said –

" _Oh. Are you going to mate again?_ "

Voldemort clenched his teeth together (still angled, hmm) to keep from choking, and glared at her where she had settled herself on his shoulders. " _I am very well not_ ," he told her with a strangled voice. " _Why would you say something like that?_ "

" _Well, you're going to get rid of your clothes and be in the same room as it. That seems like a good situation for mating._ "

" _It is not_ ," Voldemort hissed, as he finally cleared the stairs and headed for the bathroom. " _That was – that was one time._ "

" _Mm. If you say so._ "

  


By the time Lord Voldemort and the snake had arrived, Barty had moved the stool under the shower head. He listened to their hissed conversation and tried to calm his heart, already picking up the pace again.

"Shall I wait outside until you call for me, master? Or would you like to get your back and feet done first?"

  


Voldemort set Nagini on the tile floor, and then found himself glaring at her tail as she pointedly slithered out of the room, a faintly hissed " _Have fun_ " permeating the air. Awful, _awful_ cobra. Why did he keep her around?

"Wait until I call you," he told Barty, examining the changes that had been made to the bathroom. "I wish to make certain I am acquainted with the sensation so I can instruct you." He waved his hand in dismissal.

Once the boy had gone, Voldemort pulled the upper layers of his clothing off. Idly, he rubbed at his hands again, watching as the scales fell from him. When they left him, they brought with them a strange sense of relief – as if his skin had been too crowded, and faintly irritated, and he had removed an uncomfortable wool sweater.

Yet the more he rubbed... he saw a few scales in the back of his hand which refused to go. They were scattered and small, almost unnoticeable from a distance, but they were still firmly ensconced in his flesh. He left them for now, as light pressure was enough to remove all the scales that had wanted to go, and he didn't feel like picking off a scale that shouldn't actually have been removed. Instead, having accepted that maybe he would be left scale-studded rather than scale-covered, he took off the remainder of his clothes.

Ah. His loins were still...

Voldemort looked down at the smooth skin – well, scales – bending over a bit so that he could see better. There were small tracts of scales already rubbed off in the hollows of his thighs, and he wondered how that would all work if he were to lose the scales. Yet at the same time, he was... glad, he thought with vertigo. He was... _happy_ that his genitalia had stayed the way it had been, and hadn't returned to being standard human male equipment.

Huh.

He pushed it away and carefully reached down, sliding his palm firmly across the skin around the slit. The smaller and more delicate scales easily rose and fell away, but the slightly thicker, ridged ones around the slit itself stayed where they were. A few others refused to move, trailing up towards his navel before petering out. A faint ache passed through his loins, as if tempting him to touch himself, but he forced it back, and instead wrapped a towel around his hips and stepped into the shower stall before closing the curtain.

"You may enter while I am in the stall," he told Barty. "There are already a number of scales on the floor – kindly clean them up, it's not even half of them." Once he heard assent, and an opening door, he turned the water on and stood under the spray.

  


Barty surveyed the floor littered with tiny, glittering scales as if he'd stepped into a gold mine. He felt tempted to grab some to keep for later but dismissed that thought as kinda creepy.

Instead, he took out his wand and used the _Ventus_ spell to get all the scales on one pile and Vanished them in one fell swoop. Idly, he wondered where Vanished things went and whether any scholar had ever attempted to Vanish themselves to find out.

Nah. He was just trying not to think about his master - potentially naked, definitely wet - under the hot water just one flimsy wall away from him.

He tried to calm his thoughts lest his arousal make itself apparent before he was done helping to descale his master's body. How strange to think he'd soon be, hopefully, massaging feet and calves with skin on them instead of scales once more...

Thus lost in thoughts of days gone by, he waited for his master to either call for him or come out into the bathroom proper.

  


The water pressure wasn't quite strong enough to force any of the scales from him on its own. Voldemort supposed he'd just have to rely on Barty for his back, then. He wasn't too upset by the idea, all told.

Instead, he focused on clearing scales from the portions of his body that he didn't expect Barty to have to touch (even though he had touched them before – no, stop). His hips, pelvis, and upper thighs all received a massage of sorts. As far as Voldemort could tell, there might be some scales left fixed over his spine, as well, but he couldn't turn enough to look. There were certainly scales left around his – slit, he really needed a better word for it, didn't he? – and traveling up towards his naval, the same he had seen before. There was a small scattering left on his hips, as well, but for the most part, there were no scales left on that part of him by the time he was done.

He felt warm as he finally shut off the water and pulled his wet hair away from his face. Carefully he wrapped the towel (now a bit wet, but well) around his hips once more before opening the curtain and searching out Barty.

"I will require aid with my back," he said. "Some of them aren't coming off – if they don't react to a firm pressure, then don't try to force them to come up."

  


"Understood," Barty replied and waited a breath or two for his master to come out.

When he didn't, Barty heaved a big internal sigh and bent down to take off his sandals and socks. His trousers were already short but he still rolled up his pant legs and his shirt sleeves over his knees and elbows, respectively.

He thanked the gods the shower was incredibly big because the degree of closeness a normal shower would have forced them into wouldn't have been good for his poor heart. His master had his back to him and Barty carefully reached out to run a hand over the patches of scales left on the man's upper back.

Many of them came up and he soon had his hands full with scales that were increasingly hard to shake off.

"Could we maybe turn the water back on? This is a bit of a mess back here. Also, I think you'll keep the scales on the ridges of your spine. I don't want to rub them too hard."

  


Voldemort cast a quick glance over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. Barty looked certain, though, and after all, they weren't magical for nothing. He flicked the spray of water back on after making sure it wouldn't abruptly hit the boy in the eyes.

He hadn't realized that the scales left on his upper back had been so irritating. Yet as Barty began to draw even more of them away, relief flooded through Voldemort, as if he had finally scratched an irritating itch. He sighed softly, and pressed back against the warm hands moving across his skin – actual skin, this time! No more scales, for the most part.

"Spinal scales, hmm?" he hummed as Barty continued to work. "I wonder if there's any reason why the ones which have stayed have stayed..."

  


Barty considered his master's question while he delighted in the feel of the man pressing back into his touch. He lightly used his fingernails to graze over the smooth, newborn skin – both to get a feel for the new texture of it as well as to remove any last lingering scales.

"As far as I can tell, the scales mostly stayed in areas where there's lots of wear and tear," he mused. "Pronounced areas like your shoulders, elbows... knuckles too I guess? I bet some on the knees and the feet will stay as well."

He stepped back by a half-step when he had no further reason for staying so close other than enjoying touching his master.

"If you turn around, I could get started on your feet."

By then, Barty was drenched. Bending down once to inspect a particularly resilient scale that ought to come off (and then did) had served to get even his head and hair soaking wet.

He ran a hand through his hair to get it to stay back and hummed at the unusual feeling of wet warm clothing clinging to his skin. Maybe he'd just stay in the shower once his master was done because that warm water was washing all the tension in his shoulders away.

  


Lots of wear and tear. Hah. Voldemort thought about his loins, and let out a huffed breath of laughter barely loud enough to even be called a laugh. He supposed, from a certain point of view, that was an area which might get 'wear and tear'... or perhaps an area that needed more protection.

Perhaps he was still feeling the aftereffects of the potion's dizziness. He shouldn't be this amused by the thought of his own... of him.

He turned, hoping to distract himself, but it didn't work.

Barty was completely drenched, his hair only hastily pushed back from his face. His clothes were dark with water and clung to his body, and his cheeks were flushed – from the heat of the water, Voldemort wondered? Or for some other cause? (He thought he could guess.) He allowed his eyes to travel over the boy, taking in the scales stuck to his hands and the faintly parted mouth, revealing the smallest spot of pink beyond it.

He was looking at Voldemort with a gaze that made Voldemort's stomach swirl inside him. As if Voldemort were the most magnificent person in the world, and nobody could ever, would ever be, able to compare to him. That look, the undivided attention of it, soothed an unhappy tension that always seemed to burrow into his heart when he wasn't looking.

Before he could tell himself that he was stupid and idiotic, he had stepped forward to close the distance between them, tilted Barty's head back, and leaned down to capture the boy's lips under his own.

  


Again with the closeness and the heated gaze...

Barty could only return the look his master gave him as if hypnotised. He felt rooted to the spot and though his knees felt weak, they were too locked up to allow him to drop onto them and worship his master's feet.

And then, suddenly, his master was in his space and they were kissing again. Barty made a very needy noise he would have been terribly ashamed of under different circumstances. As it were, he felt no shame – only longing.

He stretched to put his arms around his master's neck, gods how he loved how tall the man was, and returned the kiss with as much passion as it was given.

Quite of their own accord, Barty's hands wandered into his master's brand new hair and enjoyed the soft texture. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he also noticed the difference of sharing a kiss with two noses between them, but didn't much mind the added difficulty.

When they finally parted for air, Barty's shirt clung to his master's chest as much as his own, and he was panting.

"To think I was afraid of you pushing me away," Barty mused, voice kinda shaky. "I'm so very glad you didn't, master... I'm just... This... this is only the next logical step in my devotion for you. I'm still your humble servant, and I'll never ask for more than is freely given."

It felt good to get this off his chest, finally, and while one hand stayed in that beautiful hair, the other wandered over his master's smooth back, enjoying the feeling of softness it found there.

  


Having a hand in his hair was interesting. Nice, even – Voldemort hummed into Barty's mouth, even as the boy clutched at him and made his own noises. Finally, though, he had to breathe, and so he broke the kiss, and merely held the boy to him as one of Barty's hands wandered across Voldemort's back.

"Afraid?" he repeated, and took the boy by the cheek. "If I were to deem you no longer trustworthy, Barty, then you would be dead." A wry smile took him. "After all, anyone who has been allowed sexual contact with me cannot be allowed to go running off with that information. I'm afraid you're now bound to me until you die, even more than most Death Eaters." He made certain to inject enough humor into the last statement to show that 'I'm afraid' did not in fact convey any regret – merely an ironic turn of phrase.

"If ever I need anything from you," he continued idly, drawing a thumb lightly across Barty's lips, "I shall tell you so."


	12. Till Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite that kind of vow, but look, chapter titles are hard. – Kit

And that was it.

Barty could only hold his master's intense gaze for so long before he lost himself in the feeling the man's words inspired deep inside his soul.

When the turmoil inside him became too much to bear, Barty simply sank to his knees, clung to one of his master's legs and pressed his face against the towel hiding a pale thigh under it.

"Those are the sweetest words anyone's ever said to me," he murmured into the fabric of the towel and closed his eyes to fully take them in.

There was no way he was ever going to be apart from his master in this life, Barty realised with an utmost sense of clarity and the thought only made him cling tighter to the man.

His hands started to wander down, then, to relieve Lord Voldemort of the scales on his calves and feet. Barty hummed, meanwhile, absolutely content with the world around him, and leaned back a little to stare up at his master towering over him.

"I'd rather die than be apart from you anyway," he admitted, blinking away stray drops of water.

  


He had not expected this.

Rather than resignation to his fate, or even a sense of finality, instead what Voldemort read from Barty's face was... joy? Shock, yet joy. His words as he clung to Voldemort's leg, voice quivering in a strange and feverish glee, said only that he was happy. But why was he happy? He was stuck with Voldemort - for the Dark Lord certainly wouldn't be letting Barty out of his sight very often. He had already decided this, before Barty had returned from Germany.

"I'd rather die than be apart from you anyway," the boy said, looking up from where he had begun to work at the scales on Voldemort's lower legs with his eyes tearing, and. And.

Oh.

Is that why he had begged not to be sent away, when Voldemort had first encountered him in the shower? Said that he would rather be dead? (Rather be _dead?_ Really?) The tears, too, were a surprise. Voldemort had never really expected to see any human cry when they were happy and yet here Barty was, proving him wrong.

Was it really such a nightmare for the boy, to be apart from Voldemort? (And if so, why?)

He felt better about it all now, though. Safer. Perhaps even...

"I can certainly arrange that," he told Barty. "I'd rather keep your detective skills around for as long as possible, however." He reached down to touch the boy's hair. "Do you require me to lift my feet so you might reach the soles?"

  


Barty hummed at what he considered to only be a half-joke his master made. It could be arranged, indeed... What a pleasure it would be to be certain that if death came, it would be at Lord Voldemort's hand.

"Yes, please," Barty nodded at his master's question and continued his ministrations with single-minded focus.

The scales at the feet were a lot more resilient than the ones on the man's back and legs and stayed at his ankle, the balls of his feet, his heel and some even on the backs of his toes.

The picture they painted was mesmerising and Barty leaned down, quite entranced, and peppered the foot he was holding with reverent kisses, moving up from the toes towards the calves. He was suddenly struck by the desire to lie down flat and kiss the soles with the foot pressing down on him but decided against it.

He'd been having lots of these thoughts lately, he realised. Of Lord Voldemort viciously pulling at his hair, roughly grabbing his throat, and now, stepping on him?

He felt his arousal grow in his pants and bent over a little more to try and hide it and continued with the second foot.

  


Voldemort watched, vaguely mesmerized, as Barty rubbed over his foot and removed what scales were willing to be removed. The kisses, too, were a pleasant sensation, and he watched lazily as his servant did all the work for him.

Then, as Barty shifted, he saw it. A faint bulge in the boy's trousers, indicating that he was aroused.

Ah. Was this a... sexual situation, then?

Normally, he thought, he would not have reacted to such a realization. Yet now, his loins were suddenly subject to a rush of heat, and – he was pretty certain about this – a rush of that same wetness, that he was starting to become used to as an indication of his own arousal. Sexual. Yes. Damn Nagini and her strange precognitions, he thought.

He thought, too, of how many times Barty had declared he would do _anything_. Anything at all... When they had lain together, the boy had asked if he could use his mouth. Voldemort suddenly found himself very interested in what that might have meant, as another rush of heat took him. It would be better, he thought distantly, to know if Barty could falter in his willingness to obey before he took things – before anything else. Was it not?

"It is curious," he began, "how the potion partially repaired some of the more snake-like aspects of my new body, yet left others alone. I had intended for the hair and nose to return, of course, but had intended to keep the scales – yet here they are, falling off." He paused, forcing himself not to grow too nervous to proceed. "However, as far as I have observed, all other features remain the same."

He tilted his head to the side, though the boy wasn't looking up to see it. "I seem to recall, Barty, that you offered to use your mouth?"

  


It was nice to listen to his master chatter on about his potion while he worked. Something warm and hungry reacted inside him upon the man's declaration that their little secret between his legs remained unchanged.

And then, entirely unexpected, that awful, beautiful question, causing all the blood in his body to rush towards his middle.

"I did," he replied huskily, daring to look up. He'd just finished kissing the second foot as much as it deserved and gently put it back on the floor. "And there's nothing I'd enjoy more right now than to taste you like that..."

He sat up on his haunches, straightening his upper body.

"I also recall promising I'd make it _so very good_... I intend to keep that promise."

To illustrate, he pressed his face into the towel, right where his master's arousal was hidden from him.

"Just say the word..."

He pressed the flat of his tongue against the towel, right where that fateful slit waited for him – eager to start, but unwilling to just relieve his master of the towel of his own accord.

  


Voldemort felt his face flush as Barty spoke, voice low and husky. Fuck, he thought – now the boy would be able to see him blushing. Damn scales falling out. Yet still, the idea of it fascinated him. (What would a tongue feel like – ?)

Even the faint pressure of Barty's face against his pelvis was arousing. That was definitely the correct word for the heat that was coursing through him. Carefully, before he could decide otherwise, he reached down and drew the towel away, revealing himself to the boy. "Well?" he said.

  


Barty certainly wasted no time and dove back in as soon as the towel was gone. He used his hands only insofar as to spread the slit open and pressed the flat of his tongue to it.

It tasted musky, heady and a little sweet all at the same time and Barty moaned wantonly as his eyes fluttered shut.

What a sweet sensation, how soft, yet hard, giving, yet resistant.

  


Voldemort's fingers twitched as the boy's tongue licked across him for the first time. Oh, he thought. Then – _Mmm_.

He tilted his hips a bit, to allow his servant better access, and placed a hand on the wall of the shower to steady himself.

  


Glad that his approach seemed to have hit the spot (so to say), Barty continued licking with broad, flat stripes for a while. Then, he stiffened his tongue and pushed it inside that wonderful wet heat.

His tongue easily found those ridges that had made his master lose his mind and he let his tongue press on them while he pumped it in and out.

Meanwhile, one hand continued to hold his master open while the other snaked around the man's hips and pushed him, in sync, onto Barty's thrusting tongue.

  


The initial act had merely been sensual. Yet when Voldemort felt Barty's tongue inside him, and felt those most sensitive areas being pressed on and stimulated , it was ever more pleasurable. (He really needed to work out words for all of this anatomy, he thought distantly – and then he was again distracted by the press of Barty's tongue against his insides.) When the boy reached around his hips to press him rhythmically against his face, Voldemort gladly allowed it, throwing his head back and enjoying the sensations.

"Ahhhh," he heard himself moan, and told himself to stop being upset about vocalizations. After all – after all. "Mmmm," he hummed instead, almost experimentally, when the boy pressed deliciously at the base of one of the ridges, wondering whether it would change anything about Barty's behavior.

  


Barty felt a full body shiver run down his spine when his master uttered those sweet sounds and he tried to press impossibly deeper with a low moan he tried to incorporate into his caresses.

Boldly, he hefted one of his master's legs over his shoulder and used the arm wrapped around his hips to steady him.

Yes, yes, this was... he could press his whole face against his master like this, and now, with Lord Voldemort leaning back against and supported by the wall, the stream of warm water rained down on his head and face and everything was warm and wet and delicious.

His cock strained against the inside of his pants and Barty gasped when a slight change of position rubbed it against the fabric. What a delicious, unexpected way to spend the afternoon.

  


The little experiment did indeed produce results – wonderful results. Somehow, Voldemort found himself with his back to the shower wall, and one of his legs over Barty's shoulder. The boy's face was pressed so far into his pelvis that Voldemort wondered for a moment how that all was fitting together, before he was distracted again by the tongue licking against his insides. Voldemort's breathing stuttered for a long moment before he got it back under control.

Soon, the ministrations almost became too much. Voldemort could feel heat churning in his belly, and couldn't stop himself from bucking his hips against Barty's face as he finally ascended to his climax. Without meaning to, his hands grabbed the boy's hair and held on tightly, keeping that delicious mouth pressed against him until the shudders of his orgasm had finished making their way through his body.

  


Barty almost came undone when his master's hands fisted in his hair and the pulses of the man's climax coursed through Barty's tongue, still buried as deep inside of him as it would go.

It felt incredibly good to have his face used like this and Barty only leaned back when his master's press against the back of his head stopped.

He felt wrecked, utterly wrecked, and still his neglected cock was straining against the seam of his trousers. His hands were free now, but wasn't his body his master's?

"So beautiful... I'm so close just from feeling you, tasting you... Please, master, may I touch myself? Please..."

He was still kneeling, looking up at Lord Voldemort with lust darkening his gaze. His arms were resting on his thighs now, just waiting for the permission to bring himself relief.

  


By Hecate, orgasms were good.

Voldemort remained for a moment with his head thrown back against the wall, and Barty clutched to him. Only when he felt his breathing begin to even out again did he release Barty's head, and slowly, trying to control the wobble in his muscles, pull his leg from over Barty's shoulder and stand up properly once again.

He almost said 'yes' instinctively when the boy asked for permission to touch himself. But then he thought another moment, and in that moment, he thought differently. Had he not begun this encounter by testing whether or not the boy would do what he had offered? But there was, Voldemort knew, a strong difference between obeying an order for something one wanted, and obeying an order one did not want. The latter was undoubtedly much more difficult – and rarer, too.

He gazed down at the boy as he turned the water off and retrieved the towel – though he didn't bother to wrap it around his hips again. Instead, he knelt on a whim, and took both of Barty's wrists in his hands, holding them together.

"No," he said firmly and deliberately. "You may not. It's very difficult to obey an order which goes counter to your desires, is it not, Barty? I must know that you are loyal to me, and not to your body. Prove to me that you can do this."

Without waiting for an answer, he released the boy's wrists, and stepped out of the shower. "I am going to dress and return to my research," he said before he left the bathroom. "I expect dinner as usual."

Nagini was waiting for him when he arrived in the library. " _So, how was it?_ " she asked.

Voldemort threw a book at her, and got back to plotting.

  


Barty was left sitting like a tiny wet kitten and stared after his master when he left the bathroom.

Surely he couldn't mean to leave him like..?

Another hot wave of desire washed over him at the thought of being instructed so cruelly and he moaned at the pleasure of it. Then, with a start, he realised this was the opposite of what he'd been commanded to do!

He got up laboriously and turned the shower back on – ice cold.

"Hah!" he cried, body screaming at him to escape the ice cold downpour, and fast, but he stayed strong until the last of his lust had frozen to ice.

His devotion would always prove to be stronger than his lust.

He changed his clothes after he left the bathroom and went downstairs to get a clear head while training at the beach. He was good at not getting what he wanted.

  


That evening, dinner was an elaborate affair with a whole chicken roasted in the oven, served with rosemary potatoes and steamed carrots. Barty was sitting on his usual seat, back straight, and waited for his master to join him with a happy little smile on his face.

  


Dinnertime came eventually, and so the Dark Lord proceeded downstairs to their usual dining room. Barty was waiting there, staring into the distance with a strange smile on his face when Voldemort arrived.

"Hello, master," the boy greeted him when Voldemort arrived, and began to describe what he had made. Voldemort nodded along idly, and gave his usual seat a miss, in order to stand by Barty.

"Master?" the boy asked, looking up at him with those particular wide (and almost endearing) eyes that he was fond of wearing.

Voldemort reached down and took Barty's chin. "Show me whether or not you followed my orders," he said.

Immediately, the boy's mind opened up, though his breathing hitched a bit. Voldemort dove right in, skimming past the actions of cooking dinner and training on the beach. Then, finally, he reached the pertinent moment.

He couldn't say he had expected the boy to douse himself with ice water in an effort to control his arousal, but, admittedly, it had been effective. A strange glee welled up within Voldemort as he realised, too, what this meant.

Barty was loyal. But not just in the way that Voldemort usually meant. He was loyal in a way Voldemort had never thought possible – an almost snake-like loyalty, of a sort that Voldemort had never seen in a human, had thought he'd never see in a human.

And the boy was his, for all of that. That impossible loyalty belonged to _Lord Voldemort_ , and to nobody else.

He removed himself from Barty's mind and allowed a pleased, gleeful smile to spread across his face. "Good boy," he murmured, remembering how well Barty had reacted to it before, and touched the boy's hair for a moment. "I am pleased with your obedience, Barty."

  


He'd done good.

That thought reverberated inside Barty's mind, seemed to duplicate and multiply, until all he could feel and think was contentment at having made his master proud.

"I told you – your very word is my command, master," he reiterated and briefly touched the man's wrist where his hand touched Barty's hair. "And I'm honoured to be at your every beck and call."

He ducked his head, then, and gestured towards his master's chair almost shyly.

"Let's eat, I'm starving," he grinned and charmed the cutlery to serve them. What a good eve before his birthday tomorrow!

  


After dinner, Voldemort retired to the library once more, as had become his habit. Barty followed him almost eagerly – he wondered why he had never before noticed how eagerly the boy tended to conduct himself. For a while the boy merely sat at Voldemort's feet and read, as usual. Soon, though, he was bent over his Lord's feet, massaging and kissing them, in another way that had become habit. Voldemort continued reading, but occasionally glanced over at the boy as he enjoyed the ministrations to his feet – even allowed himself a small private smile of satisfaction, once, when Barty wasn't looking.

Finally he forced himself to abandon his reading, and retired further to bed. Barty followed him again – he didn't find it obnoxious. He wondered if he ever would, or if this was just – how things were now.

Voldemort couldn't decide if he liked that or not. He would, he decided, have to wait and see.

Yet once they were abed and the light was out, the boy couldn't seem to stay still. It was the first night like this that Voldemort could remember. He kept twisting around in Voldemort's arms, pressing his back against Voldemort's chest in a way that might have been pleasing if only his limbs weren't twitching so much.

Eventually (rather quickly, actually), the Dark Lord became quite fed up, and reached up to take the boy by the forehead. Firmly, he pressed Barty's head back against the hollow of Voldemort's own throat, not allowing him any leeway to move. " _Sleep_ ," he hissed in English, with a nearly Parseltongue tone overlaying his voice.

  


Barty was restless. Had been restless ever since he'd found his master strung out on an experimental potion and then spent the better part of an hour removing suddenly-obsolete scales from the man's skin. Skin!

And after that... Barty blushed a deep crimson and tried to get comfortable in bed. There was still the phantom taste of his master's arousal on his tongue and Barty twisted from conflicting desires warring in his chest. He wanted more, wanted to do it again, Gods but the man had sounded so sweet, tasted so good–

And then, tomorrow, an excursion! Getting some more clothes maybe, some more books, ice cream once more...

" _Sleep_ ," came the hissed command and Barty stilled. Had he been restless enough to disturb Lord Voldemort and keep him from sleeping?

Regret was blooming in his chest and the hand holding his head steady felt like a welcome anchor in a storm. Barty exhaled a shaky breath and finally, finally, managed to find a position that was comfortable.

"I'm sorry," he whispered sleepily into the stillness between them, only broken by the gentle roll of waves in the distance. "I'm just... very excited. You said you don't celebrate them, so I didn't say anything, but it's my birthday tomorrow. My first birthday in freedom in... 14 years now? Thank you again for coming for me, master."

He pressed just that little bit closer and sighed contentedly before his eyes fluttered shut.

  


And just like that... he stopped?

Voldemort blinked in the darkness. Slowly, he removed his hand from Barty's head. There were no more restless twists and turns – merely loose relaxation. It had been that easy.

How could it have been that easy?

Voldemort couldn't understand the impulse to excitement over birthdays. He had never received any presents for his birthday, after all. But he wasn't fool enough to ignore the fact that other humans did, in fact, get excited for them. He hadn't realized that tomorrow was Barty's birthday – it explained the restlessness, but it didn't explain why the boy seemed to be able to just _turn it off_ when Voldemort ordered it to be so.

He could do this. And he had denied himself climax at Voldemort's word. And he was happy to be told that if he were to be released, it would only be into death. And he followed Voldemort around this evening as if – as if he were a pet. (How was that possible, in a human?)

Yet the Dark Lord wanted more of that impossible, ridiculous loyalty. Voldemort wanted to take that and bind it to his person so utterly that there would never be any doubt, that not only would Voldemort know – but Barty would know, and all others would know. Barty was his. Nobody else could have this loyalty. Nobody else deserved it...

Yes, Voldemort thought again, clutching the boy closer to his chest. He deserved this. After every shitty thing in his life – he could well admit, to himself at least, that his life had never been very happy for all that he'd carved out his own pleasures from places society said pleasure was not to be derived – he deserved to have this. He would have it.

Barty was _his_.

He would only have to show the world that this was so, had to find some way to do it aside from the Dark Mark on the boy's forearm, for that wasn't strong enough. He needed –

Yes, he thought. Of course.

  


On the next day, after a very self-indulgent breakfast of pancakes with syrup, Barty and Lord Voldemort Apparated to the designated traveller's point in Rittic Alley.

It was so early that most shops were only just opening and shopkeepers and salesmen were putting out their wares and displays. Barty felt like roaming around the still mostly-unknown to him Alley but stayed close to his master instead.

"We really should get some more clothes for you, mas-my Lord," he advised after wondering where to go first for a moment. "I can get the laundry done in time, of course, but once you're holding court again more often, those Purebloods will want to see your wealth and opulence reflected in the many different outfits you wear. It might be a good idea to start building up that wardrobe immediately, bothersome as it may be."

  


Voldemort considered this proposal for a moment. He supposed that the boy had a point – and his current wardrobe admittedly only tended towards the modern style that he preferred, which was, further admittedly, more of the style of the 1930s than of the modern 1990s or even 1980s, insofar as wizarding styles changed. It wasn't much change, but to the cultured eye, it could be significant.

He wanted more classic robes, though – the sorts of things that he had always bent towards when he had been a young boy first encountering this miraculous new world of fashions that did not require trousers. (At least, not muggle ones.) "An apt idea," he said shortly, as he nodded in acceptance. He then cast an appraising eye over Barty. "You could use some additional clothing as well," he stated, tugging at the boy's current (rather plain) dayrobe. "More formal servant wear. Come."

And he led the way off to Rosalie's shop.

  


"I certainly wouldn't be opposed," Barty agreed and followed his master towards the clothing shop they'd been to once.

With a shudder, he realised that he was going to have to encounter the nosy woman and her poking and prodding at him again. The things one endured..! Servant's wear on the other hand did sound dreamy, of course.

As they walked, Barty wondered about the glances and sometimes outright stares the residents of the Alley sent their way and concluded that his master's ridiculous handsomeness was even more pronounced and captivating when it was real instead of a glamour. Not that the man had ever been less than stunning to him personally...

The shop front of Madam Maier's clothing store was much unchanged from how he remembered it and he held the door for his master, making a little bell above it chime twice.

"Coming," came the sing-song voice from further in the back of the store again, and Barty initiated a tactical retreat by stepping behind his master so she might leave him alone until - his heart sank - it was his time to be fitted.

  


Voldemort ignored how Barty kept behind him once they were in the shop – _really_ , he thought – and merely nodded politely to Rosalie when she finally emerged from the back.

"Ah," she said when she saw them. "Back again, eh?"

"As ever," Voldemort said. "I find myself wishing for robes of a certain style, this go around."

"Of course. Renaissance style, isn't it?" she said, looking at him sharply. "Your shoulders are broader."

"Exercise, I'm afraid." Voldemort smiled thinly.

She tutted. "I'll have to measure you again. Will _Mr. Smith_ back there require anything while he's here?"

"Some formal servant robes," Voldemort said. "Have them match mine somewhat in design, or theme... however you please, if you can bring yourself to do that."

"Can he take his glamour off? I assume he'll be wearing the robes in a situation where he needs not pretend to be somebody else."

Internally, Voldemort sighed.

"If you must," he said, as he followed her to the back. "Remember the agreement."

"Wouldn't dream of forgetting."

Once his own measurements had been updated to accommodate the muscle mass Voldemort had added since their first visit, he instructed Barty to allow Rosalie to measure and design robes for him, and to remain in the shop until Voldemort returned. In that brief time allotment, he quickly made his way to a particular shop in Knockturn Alley that he had long been aware of, and ordered a particular specialty item to be prepared by mid-day. He was especially pleased by his choice of an anchor gem – it was deep red, and matched his eyes when they were unglamoured.

Then, feeling a strange bubble of excitement in his stomach, he made his way quickly back to Rittic, and Rosalie's store. He hoped she hadn't intimidated the boy too much…

  


After his master's departure, Barty saw himself faced with Madam Maier's expectant gaze. "Well?" she asked and he refrained from glaring by sheer force of will.

It had taken him a while to work through how she'd known his real identity, but he had concluded that the dreaded article he'd almost forgotten about must have given certain people who knew his master was back an idea of his own true name.

He ran a hand over his face and took the glamour away with it. He was a little shorter, a little slimmer, than Edward Smith, and to his surprise, Madam Maier was upon him with three quick steps.

"Yes, no, that doesn't work at all," she tutted, pulling at the lapel of his vest. "These colours don't work for you at _all_ , they need to be very much lighter and softer." She smirked at him. "You're not quite as severe as that glamour you wore, are you?"

"Make no mistake," Barty warned her, fingers flexing against his sides. "You don't want to make an enemy of me. That boy you might have seen in the newspaper is long gone."

"Oh, I'm very sure," Madam Maier agreed with a wry grin and waved at him to follow her deeper into the bowels of her shop. "Servant wear, then. Matched to your Lord. You are alright with that?"

"Very," Barty affirmed, getting rid of the outer layers of his clothes until he was clad in only his pants and a thin shirt.

"Mh," Madam Maier replied noncommittally while her tape measures sought out his every measurement. "My, look at the state of your knees," she hummed after quietly going about her work for a while. "Would you like me to include padding on your new trousers?"

"No, thank you." Barty felt mortified and saw his orders from his master endangered. "I tend to a potion garden and I won't be wearing the formal wear you're tailoring for me outside in the dirt. Thanks for your consideration, though."

She looked up at him from where she was examining the sorry state of his knees and finally straightened. In the heels she wore, she was roughly as tall as him.

"As you please, Mr Crouch," she nodded, not quite convinced, and Barty felt his blood turn to ice. "I'm done measuring you, so you may dress again."

"Don't call me that name," he practically hissed when he'd recovered from the shock.

"What? That _is_ your name, isn't it?"

"It hasn't been my bloody name for 14 years," he told her angrily and haphazardly threw on his clothes. Then, he drew in a deep breath. "I'm... I'm sorry for snapping at you, it's... a touchy subject. Please just call me Barty, if you will."

"Barty then," she nodded, looking at him so intently that he started fretting and feeling bad for his outburst. "Gosh, but you really _are_ a sweetheart, aren't you? No, I can totally see it. Those eyes of yours, practically begging to be adopted... Look, boy, if he ever gets tired of you, you come to me, yes? I could always use a helping hand around here, and there's even room and board if you want."

Barty didn't know what to reply to that and he certainly didn't want to entertain the thought of his master getting sick of him, ever.

"I'll... keep it in mind," he lied and ran from the large fitting room – and almost right into Lord Voldemort, who looked less than pleased.

  


Voldemort did not like curtains. He especially did not like them when they concealed important things such as facial expressions, the way that they were doing now.

Based on the speed with which Barty fled the room, though, and the expression of discomfort on his face, Voldemort chose for the moment to presume that the boy was unhappy with the assumptions Rosalie had made – lying just as an excuse to get out of the conversation. The sight of that expression, and the mixed relief and worry that came when the boy noticed Voldemort's presence, settled the churning that had grown in his stomach as he listened to Rosalie's little speech.

He couldn't think about that right now. Instead, he reached out and grabbed Barty by the shoulder, yanking him closer to his Lord so that Voldemort could place himself between his servant and – the upstart tailor.

"Why is it," he hissed in English, "that I return to find you trying to poach my servants, Rosalie?"

The lack of flinching at being spoken to in such a way would have garnered more respect from Voldemort if she had not spoken the words that had incensed him in the first place. "It was just an offer," she said, holding up her hands lightly. Not very dramatic, but enough to indicate a cessation of hostilities was desired. "Christ, it's not like I offered the boy a competitive salary."

Voldemort rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on Barty's arm. Rosalie clearly noticed – let her, Voldemort thought. "I come here for clothes service," he said, "not for unsolicited commentary aimed at my servants. I expect never to hear such a statement from you again, or there will be consequences." He had never before had to use the agreed upon phrase that meant murder was a possibility, but... he supposed it had to come at some point.

"Alright," she said, voice clipped.

Voldemort nodded sharply, and stopped looming. "I shall return around noon to pick up the clothing and pay – unless you require more time?"

"No, that ought to do it," she said.

Voldemort nodded again, and swept from the shop, still keeping his hold on Barty's arm. The boy squeaked a bit – perhaps in shock – but soon quieted himself and followed Voldemort willingly. Good – that was good.

His eyes picked out a well-obscured alley by the clothing shop, and he pulled them both into it with a hasty and wandless notice-us-not so he could grasp Barty's face between his hands and force him to look up into Voldemort's eyes. "Show me what happened," he ordered.

Barty slid away under him willingly, opening like a book. Voldemort flicked through his conversation with Rosalie, irritated with himself for not noticing the issue of Barty's knees, but pleased with Barty's cover story – for all that the tailor hadn't believed it. He was, however, most interested in the emotions Barty felt as Rosalie spoke her piece. Discomfort – uncertainty – an unwillingness to entertain thought of the scenario she had spoken of. And – ah.

A lie.

The churning finally settled entirely. Voldemort withdrew from his servant's mind, but kept his hands firmly cradling Barty's jaw.

"You are to put her suggestion entirely out of your mind," he ordered – because he couldn't just let it lie. "It does not apply to you. Even were I to discard you, I would kill you. Remember that."

  


Why did his master choose _this_ moment to return? Barty could tell from the man's expression that the conversation Madam Maier had settled him with was not to his liking. At all.

He felt relief, of course, but he also smelled a confrontation in the air and was glad to be kept out of it by Lord Voldemort pulling him bodily out of the way. (Distantly, he thought how nice it was to have someone be so possessive about his loyalties.)

After his master was done reprimanding the seamstress, Barty was all set to follow the man out of the shop when instead, he was dragged along like an unruly child. It was kind of unfair to be held responsible for Madam Maier's conduct towards him and Barty was just about to protest his innocence when his master maneuvered them into an alley, set up a concealment charm and pushed Barty into the wall.

Since his innocence in the matter was about to be proven by legilimency, he dismissed his concerns and opened his mind like he'd opened his heart for Lord Voldemort. He saw to it that his mind was as open as it could possibly be since his master didn't look like he was in a mood for waiting and was relieved when the wild look in the man's eyes vanished after watching his memory.

And then – well, he would certainly try. It was just like using a pensieve, wasn't it? Barty took what little Occlumency he could do, isolated the memory and put it somewhere deep and dark in his mind where some of his worst memories were quarantined. (And what a blast the dementors had had with showing them to him time and time again.)

But still, even after that, something his master had said was nagging at him. He couldn't remember the context but when his gaze focused again, he looked into his master's eyes still boring into his and frowned a little.

"Thinking of you possibly discarding me breaks my heart, you know," he stated, rather matter-of-factly, and cocked his head. "I'm glad you'd kill me if that happened because I wouldn't want to live without you either way."

It felt good and right to admit to that and he heaved a sigh of relief. Without Lord Voldemort, there was no Barty, just like there were no servants without a master. The past thirteen and the first sixteen years of his life had shown that. He was a shell of himself, of what he was capable of, without Lord Voldemort.

A tender smile clawed its way onto his face. "I'm glad I get to spend my birthday with you, master."

  


Broken hearts were, again, something Voldemort had heard of. He'd always thought them an exaggeration, for he'd never seen the proof of their existence. Nevertheless, he nodded when Barty spoke, because he was uncertain how else to respond.

A strange feeling had flushed through him at yet another declaration of death being preferable to living without him. It was as though Barty had reached a hand inside of Lord Voldemort's very chest and touched something that he had never known was there, but which had craved touch all the same. His emotions, still slightly ragged from the ordeal Rosalie had put them through, finally returned to merely feeling good about the decision he had made when he had gone off to order the –

He wondered if that counted as a birthday present. Barty might even see it as one, he thought with disbelief, and almost wanted to laugh. He kept it back, though – why were his emotions so volatile today?

But he couldn't keep it back totally. As he finally released his servant's face and drew his wand to recast the glamour of Edward Smith, he could not stop himself from asking, curiously: "Whatever is that like, to be excited about your birthday?"

  


"I'm not the best person to ask," Barty admitted, running a hand over his glamoured face because glamours felt itchy sometimes. "As a child, there was a period where I was very excited because I thought my... mh, whole family would be there but it was mostly me and my mother, as always, and mother was sick, so... Winky, our house elf, used to bake me my favourite cake and sneak me a piece when she was sure no one was looking."

He pushed away from the wall and started walking toward Rittic Alley again. "I'm not even sure why I was so excited yesterday," he mused distractedly, "must have had something to do with you, I guess."

Once they were back in the gentle sunshine of the Alley, Barty wondered where to go next. "I'd like to get some new books on Arithmancy if that's okay. I need a book explicitly about crafting defensive spells because I'm looking to improve on the domed shield."

He stopped walking and grinned. "And after that, I was thinking ice cream!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort: "You are never allowed to leave my side, unless it is into death that you leave."  
> Most Humans: horror, panic, fear  
> Barty: yes please


	13. Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back and we're fabulous(ly tired)! – Rab

"Acceptable," Voldemort murmured, nodding to himself as he wandered towards one of the bookshops. "I'll be curious to look over your arithmancy once you've made enough progress on the project to have at least a coherent premise."

It took a few bookstores, and a good amount of poking around, before Barty had found a book which satisfied his requirements. Voldemort unintentionally ended up with new books as well – one or two from every shop they entered, which had either piqued his interest or his derision. One in particular was a clearly effusive and mostly falsified biography of Harry Potter's childhood, which was, to Voldemort's eternal delight, in a bin of "fictional" works. In Diagon it would undoubtedly have been with history books, as if it were _true_. The Dark Lord was almost looking forward to picking apart all the logical inconsistencies, ideally with a red inked quill.

"Do you intend to frequent the same location as last time?" Voldemort asked the boy once he had finished paying for his book and tucked the shrunken package into his pocket.

  


"I enjoyed Fortescue's," Barty affirmed and started walking towards Diagon Alley.

By now, the traffic on Rittic Alley had increased some. It wasn't quite at a level where they were bumping shoulders with other shoppers but it was a taste of what would await them in Diagon. 

As expected, when they turned onto the busy main street, scores of witches and wizards and their school-aged children were busily meandering around. Barty stuck close to his master's side, wand ready to spring from its holster, while he watched the crowd for familiar faces.

With a bit of an eye roll, he remembered that basically all Hogwarts students except the newest batch of intakes were familiar to him. How far away that year behind those thick walls seemed by now...

When they arrived at Fortescue's, Barty managed to find a more secluded booth towards the back of the store and sank down gratefully.

(Studying the card, he decided to be self-indulgent and ordered a big monstrosity of a sundae served with all kinds of pieces of tropical fruit.)

  


Voldemort hated crowds. He also hated yelling children. Therefore, the current state of Diagon Alley was extremely distasteful to him, and made him jumpy. He kept a tight grip of his muscles and reflexes as he took the most direct route he could to Fortescue's, lest he lose control and curse somebody who came too close to him or yelled too near to him.

Barty selected an isolated booth in the back, for which Voldemort was pleased. He sank down into it and made sure to keep his back as to the wall as possible as he examined the placard briefly and decided on another caramel treat – a milkshake, this time.

It took longer for their orders to arrive this time, as the store was clearly filling up for the lunch rush. Voldemort settled for it only because the ice cream was pleasant, and soon he was almost enjoying himself.

A dark thrill of adrenaline ran through him, though, as halfway through he happened to glance at the doorway and recognized a very scarred man with an eyepatch, proceeding inside with a pink-haired woman wearing an exceedingly muggle denim jacket and jeans.

  


Barty's sense for danger had the hair at the back of his neck stand up and he let his gaze sweep over the seats inside the ice cream parlour, frowning, until he followed his master's gaze towards the door. Moody and the Tonks girl..! Of all the – and of course they were also gravitating towards the back of the store.

Moody's gaze merely swept over them, probably dismissing them as two rich Purebloods having a day out, which, well, wasn't totally off the mark. He looked at Lord Voldemort for a cue on how to behave and settled down when he saw the almost smug expression on the man's face.

(He allowed himself to be proud of remembering to steal the magic eyeball because it was even able to look through glamours in which case he'd have been fucked right about now.)

He made innocuous small talk (potion garden, state of the pantry, plans for the weekend) with Lord Voldemort while the two (ex-)aurors were talking and busied himself with his delicious sundae once their table neighbours had scouted their surroundings enough to feel comfortable.

"The Order of the Phoenix?" Tonks asked quietly. "And he wants me to join?"

"To be fair, I mentioned your name, lass," Moody replied, equally as quietly. "You'd be able to meet your _cousin_ , too. Albus mostly wants contacts in the Auror force to keep an eye on the ministry. Stop any funny business before it can undermine the whole apparatus."

"Mh," the young woman hummed, eating her chocolate concoction with a brooding expression on her face. "And you lot are really sure old snake face is back?"

"Our spy met with him already and confirms it, plus: I didn't spend a bloody year inside a bloody suitcase just because I felt like it!"

"So Crouch really _did_ work for Snakey, huh? He's also a distant cousin. Fuck all the Blacks, seriously."

"Intercourse aside – when I get my hands around that scrawny neck, you can bet I'm gonna snap it ever so slowly." Moody looked murderous and Barty thought that maybe, the ice cream he was eating had just turned even sweeter. "So now that he's back, I'm doing what I can to contain the sickness. Stop the corruption before it spreads, you see? So are you in or no?"

"You know what, fuck all of them. I'm so very much in, Mad-Eye!"

"No mad eye anymore," Moody growled. "One more reason to snuff that menace out. Crouch Snr must have been mad to assuage his wife's wishes and release that madman back into the world. He should have let that boy rot in Azkaban with the rest of the Death Eater brood."

"Cheers to that," Tonks agreed and grinned brightly. "So we're going to meet some people next?"

"Yes. It's good to have someone reliable on board, lass."

They paid for their milkshakes and were already on their way while Barty was still munching on a piece of melon. A madman, him? He frowned as he thought about the accusation and spooned some more ice cream in his mouth.

Even if he was. He'd never been happier, so there was that.

  


By Morgana, it was good to be the Dark Lord.

Voldemort followed along noncommittally with Barty's fake small talk, ensuring that the two Aurors felt that Lord Voldemort and his most loyal servant were innocuous enough to ignore. Another thrill ran through Voldemort as he remembered that he was only wearing minor glamours over his eyes, to hide their true scarlet color, but was otherwise _himself_. The real face of Lord Voldemort sat just five feet away from Alastor Moody, and Alastor Moody _knew not_.

He forced himself not to grin. That particular grin had always been a dead give-away to other humans that he was not what he seemed, so he had learned to hold it in when he needed to.

Then he listened. He was not disappointed.

Dumbledore, restarting the Order of the Phoenix (blasted bird fanciers)... Whatever cousin could Moody be referring to? Not Draco Malfoy, Voldemort thought, which left... Sirius Black. How droll. And anti-Ministry work to top it all off, tut, tut, Dumbledore...

How fun it would be to set the two powerhouses on one another. Oh, but they would descend into madness if only Voldemort pulled all the strings properly, and doing so would require him to remain incognito. That was fine – he had planned this anyway. Quickly he began running through personnel lists in his mind, picking and choosing Death Eaters and sleeper agents that he might use for the task of sowing discord. The spy was clearly Severus – Voldemort had seen the man going straight to Dumbledore many times on the map, right after a meeting with Voldemort. To hear it confirmed by a third party was yet sweeter, but he left the thought alone for now.

Then Alastor Moody spoke, and Voldemort barely prevented himself from twitching. His hand tightened around the base of his milkshake glass, knuckles going white, and he brutally beat back the urge to leap up and murder the man right there for the danger he represented. How dare he speak that way, how dare he seek to harm that which was Voldemort's... which was _his_.

He would kill Alastor Moody one day. It would be slow and painful indeed, and Voldemort would vastly enjoy himself over it.

Finally, they left, taking their bodies away from him. But they left behind a wealth of information that Voldemort was gleefully looking forward to acting on.

Barty deserved a reward, Voldemort decided, for choosing today of all days to visit the Alleys. Imagine, all he had to do was sit around, and information merely dropped into his lap...

He finished up his milkshake and waited patiently for Barty to finish his own sundae, allowing himself a loose, satisfied grin that he might normally not release in public.

"Done?" he asked when Barty finally stopped eating. "Have you any more errands you wish to undertake, Edward?"

  


"No, I only wanted books and ice cream," Barty admitted with a grin. "I think we only need to get our new clothes and then we can..."

He paused there and the sudden realisation of where they were about to go once they were done with their errands put a smile on his face. And that despite the fact that he was still kinda reeling from Moody's words.

"Then we can go home."

He went to pay for their ice cream and left a tip because he felt generous before joining his master on the way back towards Madam Maier's shop. Strangely enough, he had the vague feeling that he'd left on bad terms with the seamstress and hoped his master wouldn't be mad at him for alienating the shopkeeper lady.

"Shall I wait outside while you get the clothes, my Lord? I... for some reason I don't think I wanna go back in there today. I have a bad gut feeling and I've learned to trust those."

Had he listened to those back then, he wouldn't have gone to Karkaroff's trial and someone might have been able to warn him in time to flee to... well, to _somewhere_ , in any case. Maybe the Malfoys would have sheltered him for a while.

While he'd been musing, they'd arrived outside of the clothes store and he looked up at his master expectantly, once again struck by how traditionally handsome and aristocratic Lord Voldemort looked – a timeless face, as worthy to be worshipped as the mind hidden behind that smooth forehead. And just like that, he was assured once more that the strife of 13 years had all been worth it.

  


Voldemort was glad to keep the boy away from Rosalie for now, and so he nodded and proceeded into the shop. The tailor was in the back again – Voldemort stood by the counter and waited until she emerged.

She nodded at him – Voldemort nodded back. "For my purchases from today," he said, and withdrew the sack of money he had acquired from Lucius. It was still plentiful, but he suspected in October, he would need to begin to see about acquiring more funds, depending on how quickly they ran through them.

"Of course," Rosalie said, and passed across the two wrapped and shrunk parcels. Voldemort took them and the bill, and passed across the requisite money.

"Perhaps I ought to let others know that that boy's presence at your side is not to be questioned?" Rosalie said, breaking the quiet silence and the clink of coins. Voldemort glanced up in the middle of counting, and quickly marked his progress.

"If you like," he said.

"Mm," she hummed. There was again silence, and Voldemort finished the payment. She swept the galleons into her own pouch and took her copy of the bill. "You'd best take good care of him, then," she said.

"I don't see why you're concerned about this issue," Voldemort told her.

"With the way he looks?" Rosalie said sharply, but then shook her head. "Never mind, I suppose. I'll see to it that the others are told about his status."

"Very well," Voldemort said, and swept out.

Both of the parcels were pressed into the boy's hands, and the boy directed up the street to the apparition circle. "I must go pick up one last item," Voldemort told him as he gave the order. "You may go ahead." And the boy went – because he was impossible in that way.

Voldemort spent longer than he might have liked examining the finished product. It was dark leather, a woven series of thongs, and held the same red gem within it. All the standard charms were already anchored. He turned down the craftsman's offer to bond it to his magic in the shop for an additional price, confident that he could do as much on his own time. Instead, he wrapped it carefully, and placed it in the inner pocket of his robes.

  


Barty was glad to leave the last purchases to his master and made his way over to the Apparition point. He felt watched while he waited, yet any time he tried looking at the shop fronts and passersby, no one was actually looking.

_Shopkeepers_ , he thought with a bit of a sneer. He didn't know quite where his derision for them had stemmed from but he didn't question its presence. Instead, he crossed his arms and kept waiting with a frown on his face.

He was glad when his master finally came to join him and relaxed instantly when they reached the cobble stone path leading towards the cottage.

Once inside, he took the bags of clothing from Lord Voldemort and busied himself with putting all the clothes away in an orderly fashion before going down to maybe start preparing a late lunch or an early dinner.

"Master?" he called out downstairs, "Are you hungry?"

  


Voldemort retired to the library room once he had seen Barty heading upstairs with the clothes shopping. There he swept past his usual chair until he reached the back workroom, where he shut the doors and spread the gift out on top of the table to examine it fully.

After checking that all the proportions were correct, and that the spells all worked with a wand tap, Voldemort settled in to bond it to his blood. Very carefully, he drew the requisite six drops of blood from his thumb and bonded them one by one to the leather, on top of the most pertinent of the runes. A seventh and final drop fused with the red gem, and then he tested the resonance, to be certain it had taken.

It was at about this time that Barty's voice came through the door, asking if he was hungry. Voldemort supposed he was – they had not eaten anything at lunch but ice cream, after all. Yet... No, wait. Meals were important – etcetera.

Fine, he thought, and tucked the item back into his robes to exit the library. He returned up there once he had eaten, closing himself in once more, and finished keying all the spells to his chosen keywords.

Voldemort held it up again when he was finished, and gazed at it for a moment. He tried to imagine it on the boy. It was a satisfying image – but something about it also made his stomach flip oddly.

He ignored that, and carefully placed it back in the chest pocket of his robes, before heading for the sitting room on the first floor and calling for Barty, who looked to still be tidying something up in the kitchen.

  


After he'd spent the day perusing his new book, tending to the garden and tidying everything up to his liking, Barty was surprised to be called to the sitting room of all places.

That was out of the ordinary and he half expected to find Lord Voldemort waiting for him with another experimental potion. On the way to the sitting room, he patted his working clothes down because there was still soil on them from tending to the potion garden (which was starting to show some results!) and he still felt a little self-conscious about appearing before his master in less than freshly-pressed clothes.

When he arrived, Lord Voldemort was already waiting for him. With how guarded the man looked, Barty was reasonably sure he was going to have to watch him down another experimental potion and surreptitiously looked for vials or flasks. He couldn't see any on first glance but he stayed vigilant all the same.

"You called for me, master? Have you prepared another potion for today?"

He really hoped the answer was no but in his mind, he was already mentally checking where first aid equipment was stored.

  


His breathing wouldn't stay calm. It was truly quite intolerable, and Voldemort forced himself to take a long, deep breath when the boy's footsteps approached, but before the boy would be able to see his Lord calming himself so.

There was a bit of dirt on Barty's clothes – Voldemort supposed from working in the garden. Curiously, instead of being irritated, Voldemort almost thought he enjoyed the sight.

No, he had a task to do. That thought must by necessity be for later. He couldn't even take a deep breath before beginning, this time – and so he merely launched straight in, as aloofly as he could for the words he had to say.

"As you should understand from our conversations of today and yesterday," he began, "there is now a rather significant difference between you and the remainder of my Death Eaters and other servants." The urge to pace was so, so strong. Voldemort ruthlessly held it back. He recognised in the back of his mind that by doing so, he was most likely keeping himself unnaturally still, and yet he could not do anything about that. "Given this," he continued instead, "the Dark Mark alone is no longer sufficient in marking you as mine."

Would he – would the boy even _accept_ –

Voldemort did not know what he would do, in that case. Force was possible. Murder was possible – not that he wanted that one. No. Force, he decided. Force, and later, manipulation. Yet –

He still desperately hoped none of that was going to be necessary.

"I have now the solution to this," Voldemort continued. As he spoke he reached within his robes and removed the item over which he had labored so much attention – held it up so that the boy could see it. "As well, I am given to understand that this is something which you might also desire?"

Then he could only wait with fiercely self-imposed calm for a response.

  


It was strange.

To think that up until that very moment, he'd been convinced that he had pretty much everything he needed..!

Barty had watched with fascination as Lord Voldemort managed to speak the sweetest words he'd ever heard a human being utter with the most stoic expression possible.

It was a dichotomy he had to work hard to conceptualise and his mind was working in overdrive to make sense of what, exactly, was going on. Somehow, it just didn't click and he looked at the simple leather band dangling in his master's hand as if paralysed.

"That is... is that...?"

He didn't want to look away from the leather band but he forced himself to stare at Lord Voldemort instead.

"Are you... are you asking me to wear your thrall collar? For real?"

His eyes grew wide when a realisation struck and then his hands flew to his mouth when a second followed suit.

"This is what you've been working on all day! Don't tell me... is this my birthday present?"

He moved to close the distance between them and dared to look at the unassuming leather collar once more. There was a single red gemstone set in the middle of it and he could see runes stitched on the underside. Barty reached out with a shaking hand to touch the collar but let his hand ultimately fall to his side once more.

He was simply too awed to touch it.

"I desire it," he whispered, eyes transfixed on the gemstone. "There's only one... mh, entity I desire more and that one is currently busy holding that very collar."

  


There was a short, eternal moment where Voldemort did not breathe.

It could merely be shock, he told himself. Shock did not mean refusal. That was true, right? Yes. He thought so. It was true of himself, at least, and he had nothing better than himself to go on.

The raw desire in the boy's eyes when he finally stepped forward, almost touching the leather, seemed to restore the breath to his lungs by his mere existence. Voldemort finally allowed himself to think back to the previous question.

"To be truthful," he said, "I intended this before I was aware today was your birthday. You may nevertheless consider it a birthday gift if you wish."

"I desire it," the boy whispered, still transfixed. Voldemort was not even certain if Barty had heard Voldemort's judgement on the birthday present status of it all, but he felt that clearly it was not, then, important. The bald statement of lust – for what else could that mean? – had Voldemort fighting to keep back a flush from tinting his face.

He might, he suddenly decided, be interested in having sex again.

But that was for later, too. Instead he was no longer finding it difficult to control himself, for instead he felt as if he were going to vibrate out of his body with the anticipation he felt. "Turn around, then," he said darkly, reaching up to grasp at Barty's hair and dig his fingers into the boy's scalp. "So that I might put it on you."

  


"Hah," Barty gasped, eyes fluttering shut when the emotions became too much to deal with - so pretty much the exact moment when his master's fingers fisted into his hair and _pulled_.

He took a deep breath, and turned around on unsteady feet. The desire to drop to his knees was almost overpowering, but he prevailed lest his master have to bend down to fix the collar around his – the collar..!

Soon, too soon, the hand left his hair and deft fingers brought the collar to his neck and closed it around his throat. He heard his master whisper something in Parseltongue – a password? – and suddenly, there was a burst of magic reverberating throughout his body that made thought difficult and movement impossible.

It felt like his master's magic on the rare occasion he'd been allowed to feel it, just that it was _everywhere_ and not localised on one spot like when he was healed or got the Dark Mark.

"This feels incredible," he managed to choke out when the magic was followed by a delicious warmth that spread from his neck into his very fingertips and toes.

When that, too, had passed, he turned around once more to look up at his master.

"Thank you, master," he whispered and felt one of his hands fly up to the collar to touch, to make sure it was _real_. "Please, if it isn't too much to ask... I'd, mh, really like to give you a hug as thanks?"

  


It was very, very good to see the collar on Barty's throat. The red gem rested right in the hollow of it, and Voldemort gazed down at the scene with a type of content pleasure he could not recall feeling before.

A hug was – not even an issue, he suddenly realised. His first instinct had been to reject it, as he would have always rejected a request for a – a _hug_. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort. He did not _do_ hugs. Yet, somehow, Barty was once again the exception. Lord Voldemort did not like the company of other humans, except Barty. Lord Voldemort did not indulge the requests of other humans, except Barty. Lord Voldemort did not like being touched, except by Barty. Lord Voldemort did not hug or cuddle, except with Barty. Lord Voldemort did not have sex, except with –

"You may thank me with a hug for now," he said, allowing his arms to fall to his sides so that he was a bit more approachable. "And later tonight, I do believe I shall order some additional thanking." He reached up again, unable to help himself, and placed the pad of his thumb across Barty's lips the same way he had done in the shower yesterday.

  


Barty enjoyed the feel of his master's finger on his mouth a little while before his arms reached for the man.

Instead of simply hugging the man's waist, the way he'd done before on the rare occasion he'd been allowed the pleasure of a hug, Barty stood on his tiptoes and wrapped his arms slowly, cautiously, around Lord Voldemort's neck.

Then, he slotted his body against his master's tall, powerful frame and shivered at the thought that this was where he belonged now. To be chosen like this by the most powerful wizard of all..! Fools, all of them, who didn't stay true.

That was when the meaning of his master's latest words truly set in — he was to _thank him more_ , and he had a reasonably good idea of what that was going to entail.

"Anything for you," he mumbled into the crook of his master's neck, shuddering at the sensation of his nose and lips touching soft, warm skin no one but him had been allowed to touch until then. "Just say the word, master, and your servant shall deliver."

  


Voldemort stood still for a moment as Barty not only hugged him, but nearly wrapped himself around Voldemort entirely. The difference in height between them made it difficult for the boy, surely – but he was managing nevertheless. Voldemort found he enjoyed the sensation, and he rested his chin on the boy's head, and held him in return – just to see.

"Oh, you will," he said in acknowledgement of the boy's offer. _Mine_ , he thought, and without meaning to his fingers dug into the boy's back.

Finally, the hug had passed. Voldemort released his servant, after leaning over to place a brief kiss upon his lips, and straightened.

"I should like to take dinner outside today," he said, taken by a sudden bout of whimsy. "See it done, Barty."

  


"Certainly," Barty replied and bowed low in the hip before departing with a spring to his step. He quickly stopped by the bedroom and dressed in one of his new summer servant outfits.

It was a lovely shade of light blue that complimented his eyes, and he boldly chose a red pocket square to compliment the red gem stone on his throat.

He was immensely glad to have prepared the gazebo outside whenever he'd had some spare time and released the stasis spell he'd put it under to keep it from having sand blown all over it.

Once he was done preparing two chairs and the table, he went back inside and got started on dinner. Since it was a special day, he prepared the meat pies his master hadn't gotten enough from the last time he'd made them and served them up outside with a side of mashed potatoes and a mixed salad.

Lastly, he uncorked a bottle of wine and let it breathe while he sent his Patronus, loaded with as many fond memories as he could conjure up, to fetch his master.

  


Once the boy had vanished into the bedroom – Voldemort presumed to change out of his gardening clothes – the Dark Lord proceeded back downstairs and returned to the library. He placed his outer robe carefully over his usual armchair, and then walked further back, into the workroom. Certain magic-working implements were still scattered across the table there, betraying the urgency with which he'd needed to go and bestow the collar upon the boy. He really ought to clean up.

He would. But for now, he closed the door deliberately behind him, took a few steps into the room, and then, Voldemort did something he hadn't done since he was a small child. He hugged himself tightly, and then spun around once on his heel.

" _What's made you so excited?_ " Nagini hissed unexpectedly from one of the corners of the room.

Voldemort couldn't summon the energy to glare. Instead, he merely drooped in exasperated defeat. " _And when did you get here, exactly?_ "

" _Just a bit ago_ ," she hissed, and rearranged the position in which she was coiled up. " _What happened to you? You don't usually dance._ "

" _I was –_ " Voldemort paused. " _You wouldn't understand. It was a human thing._ "

It was the wrong thing to say. Nagini gave him the most withering of snake looks, and flicked her tongue derisively. " _Don't you always complain about how you don't get human things?_ " she hissed. " _And then I have to explain them to you?_ "

" _That has nothing to do with anything. Fine. The skinny blonde human is mine now._ "

" _Wasn't it already yours?_ "

" _Even more mine now._"

They existed in silence once more, as Voldemort cleaned up and got back to work, until the coyote Patronus burst into the room to summon him to dinner. It took Voldemort a moment to go, for the magical construct was leaping about his feet endearingly, mouth open in that particular dog-like expression of excitement, and even nipped playfully at his robes a few times. It had never been so active before. Voldemort wondered what this meant for Barty's current state of mind.

Was the boy... giddy? He somehow looked forward to finding out.

  


The boy had made _meat pies_ for dinner. Voldemort barely noticed as his chair was pushed in for him (though he did appreciate that), too distracted by the glorious sight before him. The collar at Barty's throat was also a particular focus throughout dinner. The red gem, framed neatly by the pale blue, almost white collar of the new servant robes Barty had placed on his body, was eye-catching. Seeing it so often, as he filled his belly with meat pies, placed Voldemort in a most curious state of existence. Somehow, almost impossibly, he felt...

As if everything were alright. As if it were all going to be fine.

Had anything ever been this fine before?

  


After dinner, he settled back and sipped his wine while Barty cleared off the table and took everything back inside. The ocean was calming, too. Between the gentle roll of the waves, the fullness from the good meal, and the soporific effect of the wine, Voldemort almost thought he might fall asleep right here. But he had also decided that he would... yes. He couldn't fall asleep just yet.

It would be different this time, he told himself as he watched the waves and fingered the stem of his wine glass. No less pleasurable, obviously. But Voldemort would be more active this time – would touch the boy more. More hair-pulling, he thought. He enjoyed it and, too, enjoyed the noises the boy made when he did it to him.

When his wine was finished, he stood, and proceeded inside to find the boy, to whom he handed the empty glass. "Put that in with the washup," he said, "and come upstairs with me."

  


The walk up to the bedroom was almost relaxing. Barty enjoyed following where his master led him and let his mind wander in turn while he watched the lean muscles of his master's back play under the man's robes.

As expected, Lord Voldemort had tucked in as if afraid someone might steal his share and Barty had delighted in watching him eat. He'd filled the silence with theories he wanted to try out in practice from the book he'd bought and had made up ever more daring plans to infiltrate Hogwarts and steal the Elder Wand right from under Dumbledore's nose.

When they arrived in the bedroom, Barty took off his overrobes and hung them inside his ever-filling wardrobe. (So many colours, so many styles to choose from!)

"You mentioned something about me thanking you some more," he remembered almost shyly. "Have you thought some more about how I might be of service to you?"

He took some steps closer until they were, once again, almost painfully close and everything inside of Barty screamed at him to grab the man by his lapels, pull him down and crush their mouths together. Those sinful lips..!

  


The Dark Lord stared down at Barty and allowed his eyes to roam over the boy's body. His tunic was light, the top button undone. He allowed his eyes to linger once more at the collar, and for a moment, Voldemort's mind flared in pleasure at the thought that no matter what was done, Barty could not remove it on his own. From there he passed down to the boy's chest, his hips and legs, and then back up again, where he noticed –

There was a darkening bruise against Barty's upper arm, where Voldemort had grabbed it earlier that day. His eyes fell on the spot with some secret glee, and he reached up and prodded at it, earning a wince from the boy, before he wrapped his hand around it and pressed another against the small of the boy's back, pulling Barty to him.

"I have thought," he began, "that I would have you perform for me again, the way you did before you left for Germany."

He leaned down to kiss the boy, losing himself far more easily, this time, in the feeling, moving his hand from Barty's arm to the back of his neck and trailing his fingertips across the back of the collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the rich internal fiction we've created for this RP, thrall collars were an old way to enforce life debt repayment by binding one person to another in slave-like fashion. They've long since fallen out of use by most people, along with the decline (in wizarding Britain) of bald-faced slavery since the time of the Anglo-Saxons. But ofc, some old-fashioned folks still harp on the collars as the only 'true' method for service employment. – Kit


End file.
